Erotic Rage-Inducing G-Genocide
by DDorb
Summary: Far away from the reaches of the nearest Imperial fleet lays an abandoned human colony that has thrived in solitude for centuries, until now. Unbeknownst to them, a zealous Inquisitor seeks to bring them to their knees while an ancient race prepares for an unexpected visit. Meanwhile, a strange ork stumbles around with a confused mechanical bug trying to find meaning in it all.
1. Episode 1: Two Orks, One Space-Hulk

**Episode 1**

**Two Orks, One Sentient Fungus Excrement**

**Part One: Two Orks, One Fungal Fungi Fungus**

* * *

White symbols glowed on what used to be a side of a particular space faring vessel, "Netzerbek". The large derelict mass floated for centuries, shown by craters and holes deforming the hull. Atmospheric systems aboard the vessel groaned and whistled under their final breaths. Yet it remained unapparent to a certain visitor that this location made for a poor choice in travel plans.

The visitor breathed dust upon a growth that covered a wall, half the floor, and half the ceiling in its enormity. The floral fibers vibrated as nutrient rich liquids pulsed through veins. Two healthy fluid-filled bulbs of a vomit green stood in the midst of dried, sagging bulbs. Yet in the face of obvious failure, the visitor patiently waited for the moment.

The visitor's eyelids hung low, yet his excitement kept him from sleep. After a few quiet moments, the smaller bulb bounced up and down and swelled. The large green growth expanded to the joy of the visitor, and pasty liquid leaked from the membrane. The rips tore wider, and the bulb burst open. Mucus and puss spewed everywhere and drenched the visitor, who gladly licked himself clean. The visitor looked down upon the small thing with pleasure. "Pimpah Poppah," the visitor said. The small creature, green and goblin-like, looked up at him as it stomped around in its puddle of mucus and puss. "Me Ukyuk!" it shouted.

"The name be Pimpah Poppah," said the visitor. "There'a be no Snotlin' named an Ukyuk!"

"Ukyuk!" said the Snotling.

"Pimpah POPPAH!"

"UK... YUK!"

"You are a Pimpah Poppah! Not Ukyuk! Ukyuk be the un-orkyez name I've eva hearduv!"

"Pimper Popper be a silleh name!"

"Ya be a thinkin' that youz smarter than the mighty Yazbeb Grimlicka!"

"Yazbeb Arselicka!" snorted the Snotling. "Yazbeb be the unorkyez name I'va heard!" A large boot smashed into his small face, sending him across the room.

"Fine, ya 'lil Snotlin'. Be the 'lil Ukyuk ye think ya iz! Now watch meh fungi," the visitor said and left.

Ukyuk looked to the fungus and watched it with deep curiosity. The remaining healthy swell within the fungi shook and bounced like a baby in a mother's elastic belly. Ukyuk stared at the hypnotic rhythm of the bulb pulse. The dry, spongey surface stretched and squeezed while nutrients pulsed their way into the swelling sack. The straining vessels squealed and growled as more fluid entered the bulb. The swelling bulb's bouncing intensified almost tearing the section of fungus off the wall.

Yazbeb sat down on an old chair and stared into space, mind filled with the dreams of grandeur. As a large ork, muscular frame intimidating, he knew it was time for him to start his own clan. "Netzerbek. There be a name with more a' meanin' than Yazbeb. The meat laugh at Yazbeb, but the meat scream at Netzerbek."

The chair squeaked as he wiggled himself into a comfortable position. He reached down behind himself, scratched his bottom, and grinned with slight ecstasy at the sensation. Moments later he raised his hand to his face, and sniffed. His green skin puckered up into thousands of bumps and he grinned. "More!" He reached down in between his legs and scratched. His grin drew wider to that of orgasmic joy. He knew he would be smarter than any other ork. "A good leadah I am!" He said as he took a whiff of his fingers once more. "Oooooooh!" He savored the scent while the other hand scratched his crotch.

A squeak echoed down the corridor to the bridge, followed by the echo of a loud metalic groan. Yazbeb's eyes burst wide open and his attention snapped to the door. "Who ripz Netzahbek's ship?!" Yazbeb growled. He lunged from his chair and charged down the hallway. Spores burst from his skin as the Ork knocked down pipes, wires, and paneling, leaving behind him a trail of clanking junk.

Ukyuk looked at the rifle-like rod for a moment and then snapped it in half. "Not good weapon! Need mo' death!" He looked up and saw a segment of pipe revealed by a gaping hole in the ceiling. With his all his might he lept for the pipe. He grasped it, pulled himself up, then down, up, then down while bolts popped out from their sockets. Heavy feet echoed down the hall, with the grunts of a heavier Ork. Ukyuk pulled himself a little higher and dropped. He squealed in pain as the scorching water blasted him away. The Snotling hit the floor, his steaming fingers wrapped around the freed pipe.

Ukyuk leaped back as a bullet ricocheted in front of him. Yazbeb stomped toward the Snotling. "You! Stop breakin' mah waaaaaaghshipz, or I break ya and make ya mah own perzonul butt scratchah!" Ukyuk stepped back in fear, hugging his pipe. Yazbeb tore the pipe out of Ukyuk's hands, tossed it aside, and pointed at the fungal mass. "Ya watch that love lump, ya heer? No weapon ya 'lil tricksta! Bring meh the Ork when he iz a'born." He turned to leave, but stopped at the door. "No weapon," he said and left.

Ukyuk's tall pointy ears fell back and he stooped low. "Yez, Yazbeb."

Yazbeb howled down the hall. "The name a be Waughbozz Netzahbek! There ain't no Yazbeb 'ere. Ye be a callin' me Yazbeb, and yull be Yazdead."

"Ukyuk Arsekicka will make weapon," he whispered to himself as he reached for nuts, bolts, and shredded panels. He picked up the rod again, attached panels, and added a metal box with cooling inlets for the barrel casing. Ukyuk reached for some nuts and bolts and made what appeared to be a firing mechanism. Some of the bolts fell off, angering Ukyuk. He grabbed one of the regular sized charge boxes, pried it open, poked two holes for the barrel to fit in, and placed the box over the firing mechanism. He then took the remaining bits of odds and ends all over the floor and put it in the box before squeezing it shut. The supposed firing mechanism's pieces rattled inside rifle-rod's body as Ukyuk shook it. But the rifle-rod was missing something, a trigger and a stock.

Ukyuk yanked at a box full of strange switches and levers on the walls. "Neeeeeeh! Nuuuuuuh! Neeeeeeeh!" The box pinged off the wall and the bolts rattled on the floor.

"Ukyuuuuk!"

Ukyuk quickly crunched the switch-box against the rifle rod and pierced a charge box with the rod's back end. He moved the trigger-switch forward, twisted the charge box stock for some slight adjustment, and aimed for the door. This was it. Ukyuk found his opponent. A larger opponent, but nevertheless, an opponent. Now he could satisfy his hunger for death.

Yazbeb entered through the doorway and froze when he saw the rifle-rod aimed at him. He grimaced. "Ye bettah put that gun down, or Netzahbek will kick ya arse frem this side ov the 'ulk to the otha! Ya gotz it?!"

"Ukyuk gonna be takin' no orders frem Yazbeb!" The Snotling raised the gun and stepped back. "Ukyuk Arsekicka will fight! Ukyuk Arsekicka will win!"

Yazbeb stepped forward, fists curled and fingernails crunching. "Ukyuk Arselicka will looze his arse!" he growled.

"Arselicka stepz no further!" Ukyuk stood with rifle steady in his hands.

"Ye be the Arselicka, ya 'lil bum!"

"Ya motha waz an Arselicka! En your fatha waz a Bumkissa! En ye whole family waza lickin' and a kissin' and a scratchin' eachotha's bumz!"

"What be thiz? The 'lil Snotlin' be thinkin' that he be a smartzer en a stronger than I? Well I'll tell ye what, ya can shove your insultz right up yerz!"

The Snotling, standing firm with the hunger for war, raised his rifle. "Make meh, ya big lump ov an Arselickin'!"

"COME 'ERE YA 'LIL SNOTLIN'!" The ork pounced. The Snotling raised the rifle and yanked at the trigger-switch. The barrel mouth spat a plume of fire and launched the Snotling across the room, saving him from the falling ork who dented the floor face first. Yazbeb rose and spit out his broken teeth. His grimace transformed into a grin of ecstasy. "Netzahbek's arse ya be a lickin'," the ork said, approaching the Snotling who aimed once more. "NETZAHBEK'S ARSE YA BE A KISSIN'!"


	2. Episode 2: Two Orks, One Polite Ex

**Episode 2**

**Two Orks, One Polite Excrement**

* * *

The Snotling dodged to the side and Yazbeb crashed into the wall. Ukyuk took aim and fired again and flew to the other side of the room. Yazbeb struggled to his feet and the Snotling then realized that his gun would not work. Yazbeb turned to him. Then the realization hit the Snotling; he forgot to add a magazine, but the rest of the charge boxes were on the other side of the room where an angry Yazbeb prepared to strike.

The snotling rose and glared at the grinning ork. "Fool the ork once, the ork be a dumb," Yazbeb said. "Fool the ork twize, ye be a brightah then tha sun." Yazbeb trodded toward the bloodthirsty Snotling who stood two thirds of his size. "But try foolin' the ork three timez..." Yazbeb put his fists together and raised them high in the air. "AND YA GONNA BE A KISSIN' 'IS ARSE AND BUM!"

The ork roared in a raging fury, letting out his inner warboss. This would be Warboss Netzerbek's first battle, and Yazbeb would not let Netzerbek's legacy begin with defeat. He would crush the Snotling, it being a lesson to others that he would take no traitor lightly. Legions of his green brethern would bow before him and slaughter all that stood in his way in a glorious Waaaaaaugh! There, before the eyes of his mind, he could see endless battlefields with billions slain. He stood far above them all on a mountain of corpses carved by his own army, covered in blood. There the banner of Clan Netzerbek would wave, bloody and torn, but standing far above any other. He would be the most feared of Warbosses - the mightiest, the strongest.

Warboss Netzerbek leaned back for the final blow against the rebel. The fungus next to him pulsated as it swelled with mucus and puss leaking from small rips in its membrane. The lively bulb had grown larger than the previous and showed no signs of stopping its growth. Netzerbek felt powerful and commanding, the fungi next to him his greatest ally. He could feel the bulb take his power, build it, and return it. His power and the bulb became one in his mind, yet the bulb wasn't the only thing feeding him strength.

Netzerbek felt all of the universe converge on him, giving him the might he would need to crush this first foe and the endless ocean of enemies before him. Netzerbek closed his eyes, consuming the last bit of Yazbeb the Dreamer. He needed the energy from his consumed host to complete the transformation. Yazbeb's soul twisted and turned in anticipation as it fused with Netzerbek. Eyes still closed, Netzerbek could feel his foe before him. He mustered all the power he could until his muscles convulsed and bulged, and vessels swelled under his green skin. He was ready to go, now was the time, now was the time for Clan Netzerbek to be born!

The next thing caught Netzerbek by surprise, not only because it totally changed the situation, but made him think twice about fungi. The bulb exploded and launched gallons of puss and mucus, knocking both of the orks to the floor.

The Snotling sprung to his feet, stepped back a few paces, and aimed his weapon. A newly born ork rose out of his sticky mess, coughing, spitting, and vomiting. He looked around and made eye contact with the startled Snotling.

He raised a hand in the air and smiled. "Hello there!" he said to the Snotling. The Snotling raised his hairless brow in confusion, and stepped back further as he was still quite close to the newborn. Yazbeb lifted himself from the puddle of mucus and puss, the wind in his lungs stolen.

The newborn then turned to Yazbeb. "Hello, stranger. I apologize for the inconvenience." The newborn ork reached down to help Yazbeb, but Yazbeb shoved the newborn aside. "You there! Kill that there a traitor ov a Snotlin'!"

The newborn looked to Ukyuk. "Who is this?" he asked the Snotling and pointed to Yazbeb.

"An Arselicka he be!" Ukyuk said and raised the rifle to fire. "Get outta Ukyuk's way ya wet terd!"

"Oh," said the newborn, and stepped aside for Ukyuk to take aim. He noticed that the small ork-ish thing seemed intensly determined to kill the greater ork-ish thing.

"Why ya be kissin' a Snotlin's arse?! What ya think ye be doin'!" Yazbeb said, rising to his feet.

"Pardon me?" The newborn said.

"Ya be suckin' on the wrong teet, lad!" Yazbeb then said. "And that ain't no teet, but a tiny 'lil arse and flat bum!"

"I am not familiar with your terminology, nor your thick accent."

Yazbeb shook his head. "Ya musta been born retarded or ya be a playin' with meh. Nobodeh playz with Netzahbek!"

The newborn scratched his chin and a thick pause filled the room. Awkward glances passed around. "I'm sorry, but who's side am I supposed to be on anyway? Both of you are the same, and I doubt size is something to kill for, nevertheless hate another for."

"What ya be sayin'? Ye confuzed?" Rage filled Yazbeb's voice. "Foul fungee spawnz!" he screamed. "All ov ya!"

The newborn looked at the Snotling. "Now remind me, why are you shooting him again?" He looked at the rifle. "And with such a non-lethal mechanism."

The snotling rose from his crouched pose. "He be prey."

"But why?" Asked the newborn. "Are we not of similar appearance? All three of us have green skin, fanged teeth, broad faces, large jaws, and untrimmed nails. Oh, and the pointy ears."

"I be a thristin' fo death!"

"But why?"

"I hungah fo it, like 'em, like ya."

The newborn paused for a moment and then said, "Now what is this hunger supposed to feel like? An urge, a reason hidden within us all, tied with our emotions and instincts?"

"Do ya not feel the mighty Waaaaaauuuggghh?!" The Snotling turned his gun to the newborn. "Howz you an ork if ya don't feel the Waaaaaaauuuggghh!?"

"No, I do not. I assume by that guttural wail you mean war?" said the ork.

"All orks want Waaaaaagh!" said Yazbeb. "We be a livin' and a dyin' for Waaaaaauuuggghh!"

"You mean war?"

"That fungus live fo Waaaaagh!"

The newborn turned to the fungus. When he looked at it closely he could not see a tireless warrior, but instead a weary mother. He turned back to the little ork thing. "Are you sure?"

"All green thingz live fo Waaaaagh!"

The newborn approached the fungi. "Pardon me fellow green thing, what is your position on 'Wah'? Did you birth me with any intentions of living for this 'Wah' my companions feel an urge to follow, an urge that I lack?"

The fungus farted.

Yazbeb cracked his knuckles, tired of all this foolery. "What do ya purpoze iz then, lad, if ya don't feel the pull ov the Waaauuggh?" Mm?"

"Purpose? What do you mean?"

"Yer life purpoze? What iz it?

"To be honest, I don't know..."

"Then I'll give ye purpoze!" Yazbeb said. "Ya make this 'ere wreck a wortheh warship fo Netzahbek!"

"Sounds tiresome, but sure," said the newborn. The opportunity to learn through work drew his interest. "By the way, I would like to properly introduce myself, but I don't have a name."

"You earn name when ya have purpoze." Yazbeb turned for the blast door. "Pimpah Poppah will repair the roomz." Yazbeb ripped the rifle-rod from Ukyuk's hands and broke it. "Repair it now!" He pointed to the two of them and turned to leave.

Ukyuk placed the charge boxes back on the walls until no more footsteps echoed down the corridor. He then started to rip them off again. "Eym nought 'is Pimpah Poppah. Mah name iz Ukyuk!" the Snotling growled.

"Well Ukyuk, I guess I should get to work and make some repairs on the other parts of the ship," the newborn said. Unfortunately his friendly warmth and politness wasn't as contagious as he hoped it would be. What an interesting world he was born into.


	3. Episode 3: Three Orks, One Frigate

**Episode 3**

**Three Orks, One Frigate**

* * *

The newborn explored what remained of the ancient vessel. He figured a warship required guns and engines, but was surprised at the labyrinth of chambers and corridors. The corridors sank and rose, bent and twisted, and crossed each other enough times that the whole interior seemed repetitive. No maps or any markers were present. Memory was his only guide.

The space hulk stood solid, yet from first glance he found his list of "things that ain't here" exploding in size. In the armories the shelves for weapons and ammunition were bare, the racks for armor empty, and old circuitry missing. He traveled deeper and entered what appeared to be a maintenance room. It contained dust.

On the upper and side decks shattered turrets and twisted empty ammo feeding racks remained of old gun batteries. In the rear-most there were no Engines. It seemed as though the part with the engines was torn. Everywhere he looked on the Netzerbek screamed "Scavenged dry!" But that didn't dissapoint the newborn, as he found the whole experience stimulating, especially when he found an old orange jumpsuit - dirty, large, but comfortable.

Something glistened in the dim, yellow lights of the locker room. He pulled out a metalic tab from the jumpsuit's locker and pushed a button. A feminine voice repeated, "Ker-nal Gret-Zer-Nuk Net-Zer-Bek", but static changed the name to, "Ernel Gretznuk Netzbek". He walked into a room adjacent to the living quarters and the lockers, a bathroom. An old mirror hung from the wall and the newborn took a look at his reflection. "Gretznuk," he said. "That's a good name. It needs no purpose or reason, just someone to label. A someone like me."

Then over the ancient speaker system Yazbeb's voice crackled. "Get mah gunz readeh and the enginez burnin'! It'z time fo WAAAAAAGGGHHH! FO WAAAAAAAUUUGGGHHH!" The speaker's screeched feedback throughout the ship. Gretznuk hunched over, covered his ears, and felt the rumble of loose chunks of metal bang around below.

Gretznuk rubbed his chin. The second "Waugh" didn't sound so daring or heroic; it sounded afraid or at least desperate. "Something's up," he told himself. And so he made his way back to the atmosphere rich chamber containing the fungi where he was born only a while ago. Gretznuk approached the chamber and heard Ukyuks low grumble and the clanging of metal on metal. Inside, Ukyuk vented his rage by throwing a weapon into a huge pile of scrap. Ukyuk scratched at himself viciously and screamed wildly like a lost child. The Snotling who steadily held a rifle-rod and willing to die to feed his thirst for death curled in a ball of anger and fury. "Ima failure!" he cried. "I can't even make this gun be a workin'!"

Yazbeb stormed into the chamber. "Why ain't mah engines be a flamin'?! Why ain't the guns not be a firin'?!"

"There are no engines to flame or guns to fire."

"Are ya lackin' the smartz, aftahbarth? If there ain't aneh, then ya make yerself one!" Yazbeb ripped a pipe from the ceiling. "Orkz make everythin' frem nothin'! Ey steuwpud, watch me make this 'ere pipe shoot a bloody rocket!" Yazbeb grabbed a fist sized metal can off the floor, loaded it into pipe, and shoved a knife into the side for a grip. He pulled back on the knife and a plume of flames burst from the back of the tube as the can screeched down the corridor, swirling in the air and slamming into a wall with a fiery explosion, shaking the space hulk. Metal groaned and unseen cables snapped, the sounds of plating scraping against each other as the interior structure of the space hulk compensated from the kinetic energy.

The roof above the corridor connecting the chamber to the bridge of the Netzerbek collapsed and blocked the entrance. An alarm overhead whined and old mechanisms in the hull squealed. Old blast shutters stuttered in vain attempts to cover ventilation grates and other needless openings. Smoke poured from the ceiling and the fungus' pulse skyrocketed. The chamber shook and the three orks clung to whatever they could.

The rocking came to a sudden stop. A long period of silence followed.

A blast roared from the corridors adjacent to the chamber. The screech metal rubbing against metal ricocheted down the hall and the groans, pops, and snaps of the structure taking on weight echoed. "Danger- level three... code- breaching immediately! Internal- systems- defense failure!" a mechanical voice croaked from the nearby intercom.

"Make Netzahbek gunz, itz time fo the slaughtah!" Yazbeb squealed with joy.

Gretznuk stood confused. "Who are we fighting?"

"Space hulk sensors sez weez in a hostile environment! I say weez in arse rich environment!" Yazbeb took up a pair of half weapons from Ukyuk's pile and mashed it together and pulled at the trigger. A glowing bulb launched from the fat barrel connected to a large drum container. "Pimpah Poppah, make meh some 'ore! Enuf fo an armeh!"

Ukyuk looked up at a massive pipe looming above. It was marked with symbols of yellow and black stripes along with skulls and odd shapes. It's large size proved perfect for Ukyuk to loose himself in the long, thick cylinder's size. He mounted its length and began tugging at it. "Neeeeeeeeeh! Nuuuuuuuuh! Neeeeeeeeeeh!" After several moments of unsuccessful tugging, Ukyuk jumped down and snatched Yazbeb's explosive launcher.

"What ya be thinkin'?!" said an enraged Yazbeb.

"The pipe be mine!" said Ukyuk as he blasted the target with a spray of high explosive bulbs. The released gas and smoke were sucked into the pipe with the flames. Silence followed. The pipe began to rumble.

Ukyuk stepped toward it.

Fire burst from the pipe and engulfed the trio standing in the rich atmosphere. The air howled out cracks and vents as they burst open and large sections of the space hulk depressurized.

The fungus released spores that were sucked out of cracks in the doors. A deafening bang knocked the three trying to stand up back to the ground. A groan, a snap. An explosion...

Yazbeb shoved himself up, ran to a door, and pried it open. "ALL YE FAGGETZ GUNNA DIE IF I-" He stared into empty space, watching the pieces of the space hulk drift apart. The massive would-be warship was now just the front end of an ancient frigate. "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"

"Hopefully that took care of the intruders," the newborn sighed.


	4. Episode 4: One Ork, One Vengeful Warboss

**Episode 4**

**One Ork, One Vengeful Warboss**

**Part 1 Finale**

* * *

The Snotling held on to the fungus for dear life as the vacuum of space sucking the air pulled at his feet. Yazbeb slammed the blast doors shut, stood in silence, and turned around with bulging eyes at the Snotling.

_"Ye dirteh 'lil fagget... Ye dirteh... 'lil... fagget..." _

Yazbeb lunged for the small orkoid. The Snotling yanked at the launcher's trigger as it thumped out several bulbs at an angry ork. The bulbs smashed into the green skin, scorching it with loud bangs, yet Yazbeb powered through the punishment of the explosives. "DIE DIE DIE DIE!" screamed the Snotling.

"WAAAAAAAAUUUGH!" Yazbeb roared and lunged into the air, landing on the Snotling with a loud crunch.

Yazbeb rose, revealing the crushed corpse of the snotling he crushed under his body; Ukyuk's eyes had popped into small puddles of black mush, skull mashed hard enough for his brain to leak out of what remained of his ears and nostrils, the rest of the intestines having been launched out of the Snotling's asshole.

Netzerbek, burning in his rage of glory, then bellowed, "NETZAHBEK WILL RIP OUT YA ARSE AND SHEET DOWN YER THROAT!"

Gretznuk was confused at whom Netzerbek was yelling at and terrified about what this meant for himself.

He ate the Snotling, scooping up flesh, bile, and crushed bone with his meaty hands into his large mouth. In his jaws the bones crunched and between his lips and fingers intestinal juices squirted and dripped. He savored the flesh of the Snotling with every bite, gulped the gooey mush, and sighed with satisfaction. With the back of his hand he wiped the shreds of innards from his lips and onto his ragged clothes. Then he turned to Gretznuk. "Build Waughbozz Netzerbek a wortheh ship, fagget!"

Gretznuk looked around with wide eyes and pursed lips. "Like the weapons?"

Warboss Netzerbek leaned toward Gretznuk and seemed twice his height. "Are ya deaf, boy? I said, beld me a ship befo' ye becum mah neczt snac," he grinned with some saliva and bile dripping off his lower lip.

"Hold on," Gretznuk said, stepping out of decaying breath cloud spewed at his face. "Let me get this straight. You want me to build a ship, from what?"

"Ye beld ship like buildin' those there weaponz," Warboss Netzerbek said. "Like the gunz. En not with piecez frem mah ship."

"Well I certainly do have to make quite the stroll from space, and I assume vessel's are airtight for a reason related to the sucking sound when our unfortunate friend made the poor decision resulting in the space hulk's destruction. If so, how am I to survive out there?"

"Build ship, or Netzahbek will crusha ya and be a eatin' ya!" Netzerbek licked his lips.

Gretznuk turned to a blast door loosened by the structural weakening. He then turned to look at Netzerbek. "How much salvageable scrap do we have on here anyways? Because if there isn't enough, I'll have to scrap the walls and the pipes like our late Snotlin."

"BELD MEH A SHIP, NOW! EN DON'T RIP OR EXPLODE MINE APAHT! FAGGET!" Netzerbek roared.

Gretznuk shrugged and went for the door. He stopped at the threshold and looked at the stain on the floor. He sighed with a deep pity for the Snotling and left.

Yazbeb spat a broken tooth in the direction Gretznuk left. He turned around and began clearing the corridor leading to the bridge.

In the chamber now with a thinner atmosphere, only the fungus remained.


	5. Episode 5: One Ork, One Fungus

**Episode 5**

**Part Two: One Ork, One Fungal Fungi Fungus**

* * *

Gretznuk pulled at the pipe jutting from an hole in a dividing wall. The other scrap aboard were either made of thin metal or rusted until brittle. A large engine required plenty of parts, or plenty of scrap. But was there enough?

A loud boom shattered Gretznuk's concentration. Dust poured from the ceiling and pipes fell from the walls.

On the bridge, the mighty Warboss Netzerbek scratched between his legs. Alarms screeched and water sprayed from small inlets on the walls and ceilings. He leaped from his chair. "Who be a bashin' mah WAAAUUUGHHSHIP!" Warboss Netzerbek beat his fist against the fractured control boards. "Ya be hittin' up the wrong ork!" The bridge shook again.

"Remain calm and prepare for evacuation," said the overhead voice.

"Why don't ye go en fingah meh arse, ya tin whore!" he said, and then turned to the hallway leading to the fungus chamber. "Boy, get yer arse en geah!

Gretznuk searched the shelves as air whistled out gaps in the door seals. He bit into a small can, sucking what air he could while holding his nose. A plume of bright green burst into the room and the vacuum pulled at the ork's legs. Gretz clawed the floor, but it was no use. The floor moved away from him and he struggled to grab it.

A strong hand pulled him back onboard, and dragged him into a room secured by air tight blast doors.

Netzerbek threw Gretznuk to the ground. "Who's attacking us?" Gretznuk asked, dropping the mouth piece.

"Sumbudy whoz shudda ben shawt iv ye wern't peckin' yer noze!" Netzerbek muttered.

Gretznuk bent over and picked up his mouthpiece. He found it wise not to respond to the angry Warboss.

Pairs of heavy feet marched above them, becoming louder with every step. Netzerbek grabbed a ceiling pipe, mashed a smaller pipe's end under, and aimed at the door. However, he looked at the barrel with disapproval and saw a bigger pipe above. He reached up and pulled at it. It had some of the symbols as the other pipe Ukyuk had shot. The bolts holding the pipe pinged out of their threads as Warboss Netzerbek plucked it down. The torn piping still on the ceiling hissed a mist of a foul gas. Gretznuk bit into his small pill breather and held his nose. Netzerbek took the pipes and fashioned them into a recoilless rifle with a large magazine drum.

Mechanical, ghoulish breaths echoed in the ventilation above in an ancient tongue before hushing themselves. A boom shattered the silence. Chatter, then silence. Another explosion. Netzerbek looked around again as the pipework hanging above him shook off a layer of dust. Particles of rust rained down as the metal work vibrated. The foot steps grew louder with every explosion and Netzerbek swore to himself that they were marching on his eardrums. Metalic whispers converged behind the blast door that blocked off their room from the main ship. The lights above flickered, went out, and then cast a dimmer glow. The ventilation stopped rattling.

Metal fingers scratched and pounded against the door. Netzerbek raised his weapon and aimed for the door. The noises stopped. The blast doors' motors squealed as mechanical hands pried it open. A fierce emerald glow of untombed eyes gazed upon the two orks. Netzerbek blasted away at the shadows hiding the hundreds of hands pulling back the door. The exploding rockets flickered and sparkled as they screeched through the air, throwing sparks and smoke in all directions until contact with their target.

The rocket exploded. Even with his hands over his ears, Gretznuk felt the blast rip away at his eardrums. As his eyes adjusted from the flash, he pulled his hands away from his ears. All he could hear was the ringing.

A smoking mechanical limb rolled before Gretznuk. He picked the arm up and looked at it. He heard a loud thump next to him. He turned and saw Yazbeb on the ground, sputtering and choking. Spores burst from his skin and his saliva foamed down his cheeks. His teeth wiggled in between his lips, snapped off his gums, and slipped his mouth. He chocked on them, as well as a mouthful of blood. Blood seeped from his ears, eyes, and nostrils. The mist that had leaked from the large pipe now filled the room. Gretznuk tightened the grip on his nose and wrapped his lips tightly around the small canister, sucking the filtrated air.

A green beam shot from the shadows and shredded Yazbeb's skin off his head, frying and tearing away at flesh and bone. The beam moved down Yazbeb's face, whittling muscle and skin away in small strips and crispy bits and turning the bone into ash. Gretznuk rolled back as the beam made quick work of the body in its path. Within a fraction of the moment the energy beam finished its devastating trail from Yazbeb's head to his crotch. The mighty Netzerbek was now in two perfect, cauterized slices.

Black, skeletal machines stepped out from behind the door, grasping their gauss cannons that shed a faint green on the rusted walls. Gretznuk dropped the limb as the undead machines surrounded him. He looked up to the towering monsters. From behind them came a towering skeletal being on six legs with a long tail posed behind him, ready to strike. Two pairs of hands tore open Gretznuk's mouth, his eyes focused on the tail dripping and approaching with a foul-smelling oil. The tail shot towards his mouth, stopping a finger width away. Gretznuk tried to flick away but the oil struck his face. It stung.

Then the tail began to slowly work its way into his mouth, pushing his tongue aside and working its way into his throat. Beginning to choke, Gretznuk grabbed the tail, but his fingers could not grasp that oily surface. The hands holding him let go. He felt small fingers emerge in between the tail's segments. The fingers dug into his throat's flesh and pulled it. He looked around. Only the tail held him up now.

The ork thought he heard the tailed creature moan as it entered his throat with its throbbing tail, but before he could have a second thought everything vanished.

Gretznuk stared at the metal floor. Unlike the Netzerbek vessel's floor, this one had a polished surface that lacked rust, as did the rest of the ship within sight. The surface of the walls and floors also healed when he tried to scratch it, meaning no way for him to express himself on the walls. The ship chamber his captors placed him in revealed itself to be empty except for a raised part of the floor that he assumed to be a bed. The air reeked not of rot but of cleanliness, a morbid cleanliness. A faint green light lit his cell, much like the light coming from the gauss weapons his abductors used. A low melodic hum echoed deep within the ship of his seemingly dead captors.

The tapping of metal on metal down the hallway grabbed his attention. Two skeletal warriors, in their heavy armor, mumbled in some forgotten language. Their monotone voices were soulless, uniform and without heart. Even the metallic groans and the screeches from the vessel Netzerbek with the burping and burbling of the fungi had more personality than these two soldiers, who's glowing eyes were more hollow than empty sockets. They hunched over and their skeletal frames looked tired and recycled yet uniform and orderly. Their black metallic bones reflected the green glow of their eyes and their gauss weapons.

From behind the pair came another, and the first pair stopped in front of Gretznuk's cell, both facing him with their lonely glares, while the other two stood in front of them facing the hallway. The two metalic skeletons stared at Gretznuk for what felt like a long while. Gretznuk had a basic idea of time, but having been borne in space and now locked in a bland, greenish-black container where time passed with no effect on life, he wasn't able to figure out exactly how long he had been in there, other than remembering sleeping three times and maybe a fourth if his memory served him right. The four guards stood like lifeless statues without the slightest of movements, yet their necronic gazes seemed alive and penetrated the ork, bringing him his first experience of extreme discomfort.

Eventually he tried talking to them.

"Hello. Do you seem to know why I'm here?"

He waited for a reply.


	6. Episode 6: One Ork, One Cell

**Episode 6**

**One Ork, One Cell**

* * *

A muffled scream echoed down the hall, followed by a shrill squeak of blades against blades. The grainy whisper of dragged feet crescendoed. Gretznuk stepped closer to the grotesque gate that kept him in. From his left, two guards dragged away another captive who certainly looked different. The skin was not green and he seemed tall and muscular. The captive, squirming and twisting himself all around, gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyelids in pain as the Necron's fingers dug in to his arms. He saw the ork and shouted, "HERETICS! YOU WILL FEAR THE EMPEROR OF MANKIND AND BE IN WANT OF HIS DIVINE JUSTICE!" The guards' grips tightened and in the captive's sleeves blood began to soak, followed by his arm cracking. "AAAUUUGGGHH!" The captive slumped down, only to be pried upright by his escort. Some of the blood from his arm soaked through and dripped onto the floor. Gretz watched through the ribcages of his guards the escorting pair drag the captive down the dim hallway into a black abyss.

Gretznuk stepped back and collapsed onto the raised bit of the floor, drifting to sleep for a forth, or perhaps a fifth time.

But he couldn't sleep. A strange emotion crawled into his mind, whispering what dread his soulless keepers had in store for him. Gretznuk watched as the two guards facing away stepped forward. The guards facing him turned around and faced the other two. The whispers stopped.

The four guards marched away from the cell, leaving a confused ork in his chamber and alone and unsupervised. Remembering the whispers, Gretznuk approached the curved blades that made the door mechanism that barred him in and tried to slip through, only to cut himself just by touching the flat of the blade. Looking closer, he saw small engravings cut into the blades so that even the flat of the curved razors would inflict wounds.

After what felt like several cycles of waking up, studying the door, meditating, and going back to sleep, Gretznuk pieced together a plan for escape. Yet unlike most prisoners he planned for escape not only to silence the whispers in his mind but to satisfy his curiosity. There appeared to be no locking mechanism at first glance. The jointed blades that made up the grotesque door swirled in strange patterns, teeth tips interlocking in the center. Gretznuk poked at the teeth tips with the ends of his long ork nails. The teeth shredded the tips of his nails into small curls that fell and piled on the floor. It wasn't long before the pile of nail shavings rose higher than his big toe.

He felt ten pins, spaced out evenly from the top to the bottom of a large blade that covered most of the rest. He looked at his hands. Ten fingers wiggled happily with their ten shortened nails. Much of the original length was gone, but enough of the nails were still there. "Mhm," he said. The thought terrified him at first, but fear fell to a growing intrigue in the solution that just presented itself.

He grabbed the tip of his left middle fingernail and ripped it out with a fleshy snap. The calcified cuticle crackled as the base of the nail ripped the flesh under the skin above. The sensitive skin beneath the nail bubbled with yellow pus that also dripped from the nail tip. A dark green blood pooled on his middle finger, slipped off, and puddled between his toes. Deformed spores in a soup of mucus coming under his cuticles splattered on the floor and walls as clusters burst open. His nail free, he set it aside, and then grabbed another nail to do the same.

Fluids dripping from his fingers formed crusty scabs, and the pool of blood dried into a dark yellow gravel beneath his toes. He moved over to the elevated slab in his cell, raised his left leg, rested it on his right knee, and began ripping the nails from his toes, starting with the largest. The flesh, nails, and scrapped bone crunched, slushed, and crackled for the following moments. The cell reeked of decay.

The stimulating pain helped him focus. He then used his nails to push each pin out of position. The nails shredded as they pushed the pins out of place and the shavings piled on the floors beneath him. How convenient and pleasurably painful of a method to escape! Why hadn't the other two orks ever consider tearing out their nails, he wondered. His bare fingers and toes certainly looked and felt better. He took the last two toe nails and pushed against the blades. The joints squeaked and the menacing mechanism folded away.

A curiosity of why it was this easy to escape wrapped itself around Gretznuk's head. It begged to be answered, but more pressing matters stood at hand. He thought about escaping, but then came the thought of what surrounded the outside of the ship. He assumed the sucking vacuum of space which he figured would be too bothersome to cross without the aid and comfort of a vessel, but then guessed that it could also be a world. From the scrawlings and old posters inside the vessel Netzerbek many questions came to his mind. Colors, resources, smiling life-forms - were worlds filled with them?

If space or a world surrounded the ship on the outside, he would be able to find out with a window like the ones in the Netzerbek. But in the hallway with the containment cells, no windows could be found. Only the black, living metal walls that glistened green under the dim lighting and the barred cells filled his sight. He then noticed a room that wasn't a cell and approached it with caution.

He peaked around the corner and lo, his captors were not present. What appeared to be scrap, repair materials, and the sort lay on a table. He looked at the large shapes of metal sitting underneath the table and considered what he ought to manufacture with it. He could make a gun, however he found it pointless remembering what happened to Ukyuk.

Another idea presented itself to the captive, promising to keep him safe from the deathly boredom. He took a cylinder of dark metal with inlets spread evenly throughout and attached two finely teethed, thin gears slightly bigger than the cylinder. The gears stuck to the cylinder and twisted as if jointed to the ends. The surfaces of gears and cylinder ground with the first few turns, but with more revolutions the wheels turned smoothly. He played with his new toy, the wheels squeaking in place. A soft, playful tune from within grew louder with every turn and more complex, developing into a symphonic harmony of minor chords. It hurt his ears to listen, but the music was just too good to put down.

The music stopped as the hammering of metal feet echoed down the hall. The ork's heart beat jumped. He took the large cylinder and rushed back to his cell, dropping himself onto his bed - the raised platform - and laying his head on his toy. The original four guards returned to their original posts outside of his chamber, two staring in and two staring away.

The two facing the cell looked down to see the mess of shredded nails and dried yellow and black blood. They aimed their gauss rifles and a bright green beam incinerated the mess, leaving a scar in the floor. The floor then healed, and the two guards stepped back and closed the door's blades.

With every lifeless action, the captors consumed Gretznuk's curiosity. Their mechanical, apathetic, and coordinated movements left him without words. In an intrigued way, he enjoyed being the captive of beings to whom it seemed that he owed his awe. Warboss Netzerbek may have been mighty, but these beings had a dignity that mere strength could never achieve. What caused them to be this way? What motivated them? Who were they? Gretznuk's fingers caressed the singing cylinder with desire. Soon enough, as he felt, he would have all his answers. They were only a gear turn away.


	7. Episode 7: The Songs of a Thick Cylinder

**Episode 7**

**The Songs of the Thick Cylinder**

* * *

Six arthropod legs clicked against the floor, tapping as they carried the skeletal abdomen down the corridor. Behind him a large mechanical centipede crawled behind with various bodies and parts strung against its long, segmented belly. The combined sound rolled down the corridor. Hundreds of eyes watched the decorated mancer and his procession return from another hunt.

In the cerebral chamber, the doors on a vertical shaft against the back wall separated with the squeak and rumble of metal joints. The six legged guest exited with his mechanical companion and proceeded toward a raised platform in the center of the room. Before the staircase he kneeled and set his staff on the ground with a heavy thud.

The figure on the platform above pivoted to the visitor, his scaled cape rattling as it followed his smooth motion. He slammed his staff on the ground. A green glow emanated from his ribcage and his eye sockets that flickered as he spoke. "Ah, Cryptek..." His thunderous voice rolled across the room. "Are my services... useful?"

"Lord Szazadrekh, of course my dear friend," the visitor said in a raspy reply. "Living or dead, all flesh contains treasures."

"What of your companion?"

"Him?" The visitor's torso pivoted where the spine met the abdomen. His staff pointed at the mechanical centipede.

The centipede raised itself, spread its many legs, and revealed the two halves of a large ork. Segmented pipes and tubes dug into the flesh. The halves raised their arms and groaned. Bile and blood dripped from where the flesh was cut and . The centipede wiggled and dug more mechanical tentacles into the halves while more bile and blood gushed out. The halves screamed.

"No. Cryptek Nephalut, where is she?"

"You mean _he_?"

"She."

"He's a he."

A sigh rattled in Szazadrekh's chest. "Where is _she_?"

"Guess, your Lordship."

"Amongst the prisoners?"

"As always."

"Up to her... things?"

"Of course," the Cryptek replied.

"You may leave." The figure turned to his throne, where his silhouette sat against the green glow behind him.

The centipede turned for the shaft and the visitor followed. After the doors closed, characters lining the walls and elevated control boards lit up. A small mechanical insect jumped into his lap. He stroked its back and said, "Belakh, set course for Gheden..." The little insect squealed with joy, wiggled its butt, and jumped off. The Lord rested his chin on his knuckles as the little critter's feet echoed in the chamber against the thrum of the vessel. "A Nihilakh and an Oroskh. What an odd couple."

Gretznuk's head lay against the cylinder, its soft melody still playing.

_Sleep..._

_Sleep..._

_Sleep..._

Inside his head, the voice was still preventing him from slumber.

_I WILL DIE_

_YOU WILL DIE_

_WE WILL DIE_

_ALL WILL DIE_

The cylinder was once more singing.

"But to whom?" Gretz wondered aloud. He looked toward the empty gaze of the guards.

Reaching back, he pulled out the cylinder and presented it before them. An idea had popped into his head. Perhaps this would get him answers, or at least spark a discussion to break the endless silence. "May I have your attention please?"

The guards continued to give him their empty gazes.

"This. This is a bomb. I will count back from ten and then it will blow up, destroying a large part of your ship." He gave them a smug look and wink.

They responded with the same silence and empty gaze.

"My dear sirs, I'm being quite honest with you right now, this is a bomb that will blow up and set many of these captives free. It is very dangerous. _Very dangerous._"

The guards did nothing.

Gretznuk, holding the cylinder in both hands, stood up and approached the guards. He put the cylinder to their faces. "My dear sirs, this is going to blow up, I guarantee you that."

They gave no reaction.

He shook the cylinder and blew on it. "Ten."

He blew a kiss to the guards. "Nine."

He bent over and gave them a full moon. His hands smacked his ass cheeks confidently.

"Eight. Seven. Six."

He turned around and kicked the cylinder back and forth.

"Five. Four. Three."

He tossed the cylinder in the air.

"Twooooo."

He caught the cylinder, threw it at the guards, and leaped back.

"One!"

The cylinder hit the door with a bang and hit the floor with a rattle. Gretznuk recoiled back. "It's going to explode and kill us all!"

The guards made no motion and no movement.

"Can't you see it! Can't you see the way it stares! Glares! It wants to kill us all!" Gretznuk crawled to the guards. "Oh how it wants us all dead! Are you that blind and cold hearted that you can't see a genocidal murdering freak laying before you!"

The guards. They did nothing as always. It was a curious thing for Gretznuk. At this point he was sure that even Yazbeb Netzerbek would perhaps beat him to a pulp for not just the terrible melodramatic acting, but for crying "Bomb!" and then playing with the damn thing.

Then he heard a strange staccato sound from down the hallway. Gretznuk grabbed his cylinder and stepped away from the bladed door. A blue figure appeared, clapping. It looked rather interesting, or rather, she looked rather interesting. Finally someone appeared to be able to respond to him and bring comfort in such a boring captivity. But then a question came to mind. Who was she, and why was she different? Why were the guards not detaining her like the other prisoner? Perhaps they simply wanted that particular for something he did, he guessed. After all, it seemed as though rather painful experiences occurred to those who acted and were at odds with a stronger power. He then followed the thought to another question. What if he actually stayed outside the cell and only return when asked? Would they be able to ask? He had never heard any of them talk, and their mouths seemed not to be mouths at all but engravings on their metal faces. But then he recalled the moaning when the tail was shoved down his throat.

So many questions yet so little time to ask himself and think. But if he had left the cell, would he be as free as her?

"What a lovely performance," she said. His gaze turned to the large black pearls that were her eyes. "And if your wondering, no, you are not crazy. Well perhaps you are, but not entirely." She rested her harms on the shoulders of the four guards. "You see, these four don't have any souls. They simply observe, process, and act on whatever orders they've been given without a second thought. They lack the ability to doubt."

"Well they certainly doubted that this was a bomb," Gretznuk said.

"Was it they who doubted?" She smiled. "Or the one in charge?" She took her arms off their shoulders and turned to walk away.

"Pardon me, madam, but why talk to me?"

She stopped, her head turned as she peeked out of the corners of her black eyes. "Why not?"

"Well..." The thought stopped there. Realizing he had the opportunity - he could say anything, even if it broke off from her question, because he had her attention - he then asked, "Why am I here?"

"Why are any of us here?" she said and walked away.

A giggle danced to a terrible echo on the inside in the darkness of the cylinder. The echo screeched a broken melody of an incoherent tongue that like before, dug into Gretznuk's ears and awoke the abysmal voice within him, who growled and croaked from the depths of its throat in harmony with the song that clawed the walls of the young ork's skull.

Unable to understand what the voices said, Gretznuk found relief. That was until a sound far worse than he could imagine came from the cylinder. The only thing that came to his mind at that moment was the thought of hundreds of wires grinding together. He covered his ears and put a great amount of distance between him and the cylinder - him in one corner of the cell and the cylinder in the other. It took a moment for his ears to stop ringing, but even after they recovered the abysmal voice still growled and groaned against him.

Gretznuk looked at the cylinder. "And might I ask who are you singing for?"

_"The head,_

_That belongs,_

_Up your arse!"_

The soft, kind voice giggled and the heavy, raspy voice in his mind roared in a foul amusement. "How helpful," Gretznuk sighed. He had such a lovely yet infuriating audience. He looked up to the guards. "Maybe I should shove my head up my buttocks. What do I know? I'd probably like it in there more than here," he said. He stood up and pointed at the cylinder. "But the question I should be really asking is how I made such an infernal device! Never in the most distant corners of my mind in the short span I've existed have I ever thought about constructing you!"

An idea crawled out of the cobwebs of anxiety in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more right it seemed. The soft voice became Ukyuk, and the loud screaming voice became Netzerbek. No wonder they hated each other so much. Besides the silence of the ship, their own voices must have driven them mad. Perhaps this was what 'Waugh' truly was. Perhaps he was wrong when he assumed that he was a different ork. "I'm probably just a regular ork, and they went mad." The spoken words seemed more true every time he repeated himself.

No longer did Gretznuk feel bored in his cell. Once again, his mind ran wild with thoughts and questions as it did the moment he burst from the fungus, fungi... What was the correct term for his birth plant? Was it a plant? Why was he born from a plant? Why was he born, why didn't he exist previously? What did it mean to be born?


	8. Episode 8: Lonely, Naked, and Needy

**Episode 8**

**The Curious Pain of Bondage**

**Part One: Lonely, Naked, and Needy**

* * *

The Terran lay on the table, naked. The frigid temperatures of the interior nibbled at the skin drawn tightly over his enlarged muscles. He was surprised to find the bindings were of leather, as opposed to the usual metallic bindings other captors had used. "Where did the get such fine leather?" he thought. Not even the finest of leathers available to the Imperium were so soft and comfortable, yet so durable and tight.

It had been a while since the party who had bound him had left. He was accustomed to long waits in these regions as most captors used the technique of pure nothing to wear away at one's mind. But these captors of his, these odd skeletal machines, they had a grasp on this concept of nothing that scared him. But wait, who was he to be scared? A veteran like himself would have no trouble waiting. "I can wait forever," he thought.

Forever came and went.

How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months? He fell asleep a few times and every time he woke up he found himself feeling a little weaker. The bindings lost their comfortable feel as bruises formed around the covered skin. The Terran felt his joins ache, then his muscles, then his head. His entire body was sore. He was thirsty. Hungry.

His body still functioned in the restraints. At first he held his piss and shit in, but not even the most rigorous of the Imperium's training could keep his bowels restrained forever. Diarhea and amber urine drizzled down the slab that he was bound against, some of it clinging to his hairy legs. He lifted his nose away in disgust. Even the cruelest of captors would at least hurt him enough to die faster. At least when rotting in a cell he could walk away from bodily discharge. But not here, where the bindings refused to let him move and take care of himself. His stomach growled and growled and his tongue dried in his mouth. The valuable necessities he needed to stay conscious for the God Emperor were not there. And not serving the God Emperor with all fullness mean one thing. One thing so cursed that his body twisted and contorted at the thought.

Heresy.

He let out a mighty cry that died the moment it left his lips and became a hoarse breath. The pain of death knocking at the door was nothing compared to the agony brought by mere idea of committing the worst crime any man could make. Heresy. He had to fight the urge. He had to fight his constraints. He had to fight the weakness within. It was a lie that pain was weakness leaving the body. Rather, pain was the sign of the body releasing heresy - the revelation disturbed him greatly as he felt plenty of pain and agony. Therefore, he must have much heresy.

But as time went on, the pain increased. He was gaining more heresy than he could release. The heresy weighed him down and pinned him to the table. The more he lay there, he thought, the more heresy would inject itself into him. His first guess was wrong. This was no waiting game, this was an attempt at his loyalty to the Emperor. By doing nothing he sinned against the One and Only, the pre-Alpha and the post-Omega, the One Who Came Before the Beginning and Lived After the End.

He struggled against the leather bindings - the leather heresy he must fight. He took his remaining strength, put it all into his arms, legs, and torso, and pulled away from the table. "This heresy... must... END!"

Kophtet watched the prisoner from the safety of the seeing chamber. He tapped the glyph on the wall. "Bring Nephalut down here! It's been three cycles already! I did not come into this chamber to watch a Terran lose his mind and defecate all over my lab floors!"

"Right away... Cryptek..." A raspy voice echoed.

The Cryptek locked the joints on his six legs. His motors were already sore as were his eyes. "Never again will I ever let that Oroskh suggest that I keep watch of her toys!"

Gretznuk rested his head against the cylinder. The soft music crescendoed and hushed the yelling in his head. His small world bearable, he returned to his continuous cycle of sleeping, awaking, listening, and sleeping again. The only thing left to bother him now was the question of where the blue alien had gone.

The blue alien. Yes, her. Who was she and why did she answer his question with her question? Who was she to stand outside his cell and rest her arms upon the shoulders of soulless beings of metal and coldness? Was she one of them? Or did these morbid machines the servants of another, more dreadful, race. Would he be turned into one of them? Would he leave his flesh to become a cold, hard corpse built to serve without that essence of himself that made him, him; individual?

"I do observe, process, and act," he thought. "But what makes me different? A will of my own?" He stepped toward the machines and pointed at the chest of the closest. "Why are you not like me?" he said. He looked at his 'trimmed fingers', their scabs hardened. "Why was I not like the other orks? There are so many questions I must ask..." Yet there were no answers he could find.

"I observe, process, act. You observe, process, act. They observed, processed, acted. What makes the three of us seperate? What makes you you, me me, and they they?"

Once more, clapping echoed down the corridor. The blue alien returned and rested her arms on the shoulders of the guards. "Asking all these questions? You are quite the curious ork."

"Curious ork?" he said.

"You ask a lot of questions for an ork." She grinned, showing her black teeth. "You find something and have a sense of that that something isn't what it simple seems to be. You don't accept and do like a single cell in an organism, you question for the sake of your own personal agenda, whether you know you have an agenda or what that agenda may be.

"Which brings me to the question of, what is your take on what your kind call the 'Waugh'?"

"From what I've seen, it is apparently some urge to take arm and settle strife."

"Have you felt this urge? What underlies is? What causes it?"

"Not as close as you may think. The closest I've come to feeling Waugh is by this horrible singing cylinder." He lifted it to her eyes. "It plays soft music on the outside, but inside my head there's this nasty voice that sings terribly."

"Ah. Mind if I have a look at this 'singing cylinder' of yours?"

"Sure," Gretznuk said as he extended the cylinder to her. The blades separated and one of the guards passed the cylinder to her hand in front of his shoulder. The blades closed. She took the cylinder withdrew her arms from the guard's shoulders and rolled the cylinder in her hands. It rattled with small chunks of metal scraping and banging all over the inside.

"And you say it makes music?" She held the cylinder to her ear. She looked up and saw Gretznuk fingering his ears.

"It was." Gretznuk said. A smile of relief came across his face.

Light tapping echoed down the hallway. The blue alien stepped back into the middle of the corridor and shook the cylinder again. She looked puzzled and looked back at the ork. A little mechanical scarab hopped onto her shoulder and poked her cheek. It squealed and climbed up the blue alien's hair and danced on the crown of her head. She petted the small machine, and it squeaked. Then it jumped off and scurried away.

"I'll be back with your singing cylinder. There are some other things I have to attend to at the moment," were her final words before she slipped out of sight.

"What a strange feeling," Gretz thought. "To be free of the voices, but then thrown back into the imprisonment of silence." He looked down at his hands and closed them. "To create is to construct tools that allow the oddest of possibilities to occur. Perhaps by such creation, the deepest urges within are fully expressed and relieved. Was this why Ukyuk was compelled to create a gun, not of interest but for relief? But why do I then have this curiosity that inspires me to create? Why am I so different?" He looked to the guards. "The blue alien knows things that I must know. I must talk with her and learn from her. Conversation is the source of my answers."

The blue alien looked at her blurred reflection on the cylinder with worried eyes. "An ork with diminished jaw and a broadened cranial structure. An interesting mutation, but what could have caused it?"

Arms crossed, Kophtet watched two scarabs wrestle on the glyph tablet before him. They squeaked and squealed as they tossed each other around. The scarab that glowed red crawled onto the belly of the upturned scarab that glowed a stellar blue and pecked at the little glowing jewels on its tiny face. Kophtet backhanded the red scarab and flipped over the blue. The red scarab raised up for attack, and the blue backed toward the edge of the tablet. Kophtet reached down and pushed the blue scarab toward the red. "Come on, come on," he hissed. "Rip apart the infidel!" The blue scarab wailed, climbed over Koph's hand, and cowered behind it.

"You're a Nihilakh scarab! Have you no pride?!" Koph whipped his hand toward the ground, but the scarab clung for dear life.

"Coward!" He flicked his wrist and hissed at the blue scarab's shrill yelp. The scarab's segmented body cracked when it hit the tablet.

"Kophtet!"

The Cryptek unlocked his leg joints and his torso pivoted to his guest. "Cryptek Nephalut... Why do you bore me with your delay?"

"Malat!"


	9. Episode 9: Naughty and Foul Machines

**Episode 9**

**The Curious Pain of Bondage**

**Part 2: Naughty and Foul Machines**

* * *

The red scarab turned to the call of its master and leaped.

Nephalut caught the scarab in her palm and guided it up her arm to perch on her shoulder. "How much must I insist that you not fight scarabs before one of them falls apart?"

"What problem is there? They can reassemble themselves."

"But the trauma to the synapses! It's needless pain!"

"Your hypocrisy astounds me, leaving me to wonder if you have ever considered your pet over there. I spent the last few cycles watching him scream in that disgusting language of his for a so-called God-Emperor. Do you know how irritating it can be to hear him drone on? I'd rather listen to specimen johti-ti wail about the greatness of the sentient Warp tumors!"

"Considering your ceaseless jealousy? I can see why it would be so painful. How many times must fate reveal to you that your scheming to become a Necron Lord leads to nothing but futility? And if your claims were true, the time has passed, and you know it."

"Nephalut, I can say the same about your choice of gender."

"There's a difference-"

"Not the difference you and the others would prefer."

"I could say likewise with you."

"And still, none of this will shut up the specimen or stop him from defecating all over my floor."

"Your floor? You refer to a Sautekh ship's lab floor as yours?" Nephalut crossed her arms. "And yet you prefer to call yourself a Nihilakh. Not even I would refer to anything on this ship as mine other than what I brought onto it."

"A change of allegiance for efficience-"

"For convenience is the mark of a traitor."

Kophtet grabbed her shoulders and slammed her into the wall. "You know as well as I that our kind will never be restored to what is forever lost."

Nephalut spat in his face. "You are such a pessimist when it comes to something anyone else has lost, yet you grease the favors and sway the voices of royalty to pursue your quest for 'lost' power."

"I went into the wrong furnace! If I had not been distant of my family I could've been with them! Don't claim you know how it feels! You know that you are not female, transvestite!"

"The lies of the ambitious are endless," Nephalut said and shoved off the other Cryptek. She grabbed him by the chin and pulled his face close enough that the circle of her condensation from her breath pulsed between his eyes. "And never try to insult me by my gender, lowlife."

"The lies of the confused are endless," he chuckled. He pulled her hand away and pointed to the door. "Now get in there and do your part so we can finish your little experiment."

"As you wish, lower Cryptek." She stepped back, grinning as the door shut in front of her. Her grin turned into a light chuckle when she heard his voice cursing her name from the other side. He was a Cryptek cold, cruel, and as perverse as her. Yet he possessed a thirst for power like no other Cryptek she had ever seen. Not even the renowned Drizyan had as much pride and ambition, who tried destroying his lab and keep his projects' data in fear of another stealing credit when the ruling Phaeron of the Nihilakh's cast him aside after a new revelation from the Prophet. Kophtet proved to be very friendly when helping the Oroskh slip into Drizyan's vacant position, yet he failed as she had a hunch that her sudden friend was nothing more than a soulless investor, trying to set up a puppet in a high place. She didn't mind helping him impress and influence the Nihilakh royalty so long as he helped her with her 'private projects'.

With this in mind she approached the Terran, easing her shoulders down. Her cloak of flesh, dripping with warm blood, fell to her feet. In her mind she saw Kophtet looking away in disgust. She focused back to the Terran wailing Heresy. Disbelief overtook his face and a stream of liquid shit flowed down the slab and pooled onto the floor bellow him. His intimidating frame had already lost its look of health and strength which were replaced by starvation and stress. The muscles under his tight skin decreased, stretch marks showing where muscle fibers once bulged. Death wasn't close but neither was it far.

A sigh echoed above. "Nephalut, proceed."

Neph approached the Marine and lifted his chin. "Experiment Sawat-Diywu-yAfdat, Subject Haemi-Hamtau-"

The audio-glyph wailed with interference. Kophtet sighed. "Nephalut, why would you even-"

"It's a better dialect," she said. "The Sautekh dialect is shit."

"Apparently a barely spoken and dying dialect is all of a sudden more preferable to the common standard established by Chief Cryptek Salehket millenia ago."

"Says the Cryptek who improperly uses Sentinels to carry specimens rather than a Collection Spyder, never considering the contamination issues and possible security hazards."

"Don't blame me if no dynasty archive accepts your data because of obsolete numerics," Kophtet said. "At least I use terms most dynasties are familiar with."

"Fine then. I'll use the common dialect's numerics. Not the common standard, just the common. Why they would call a dialect that no one but only Cryptek's use the common standard is beyond my cognitive estimates."

"Keep talking. I'm not going to be the one complaining when the entirety of this ships memory crystals are all filled with your ramble. I'm sure Lord Szazadrekh will certainly love you then."

"Mhm." Neph said. "This is Cryptek Nephalut, Oroskh refugee under the order of the Nihilakh dynasty. Experiment one hundred and fifty four, Subject forty three. Hypothesis, young organics abandon artificial causes for the natural desires under extreme conditions that exceed a particular limit regardless of their fervor and mental programming. Goal, to find connections between artificial causes, such religious beliefs, duties, identity, and personal tastes, and psychological programming instilled by natural causes, and use collected data to help find ways to restore the distinct intellect amongst so-said soulless sisters and brethren such as flayed ones and those having been resurrected repeatedly for the greater good of all Necrontyr."

Loud clapping echoed over the audio-glyph. "Great work at a long confusing description. I'm sure the other Crypteks will gasp in admiration at your ramblings that they'll have to accept your experiments for their archives and peer reviews."

"To assist me is the griping traitor, Cryptek Kophtet. Former Sautekh gone Nihilakh. Common assumption suggests peer pressure and personal ambition as the cause of the change in allegiance."

"I'm editing that out."

"Only if you could do the same with your pride."

"HERETICS!" said the Terran.

Nephalut blew a kiss to the subject. "And here is the one and only subject forty three. Say hi for our listeners, whomever they may be."

"HERETICS! YOU'RE ALL HERETICS! THE EMPEROR WILL PURGE-" A loud smack echoed off the lab walls. Blood and spit sprayed from the side of the Terran's mouth. Malat raised a blood stained claw over the Terran's turned face with a joyful squeal.

"And I almost forgot, my assistant scarab Malat who will record a visual record of this experiment."

The audio-glyph wailed again. Malat covered his head and shuddered while the Terran groaned in agony. "Are we going to start the damn experiment or are we going to introduce every fucking crew member?" Kophtet said.

Nephalut smiled upon the scarab squeaking with delight. She looked deeply into the eyes of the prisoner and rested her hand on his sweating chest.

"Malat, grab my injector."


	10. Episode 10: An Uneasy Throat

**Episode 10**

**A Confused Mind and An Uneasy Throat**

* * *

Gretznuk hated the cell. He didn't need the cylinder's help as his thoughts were enough to be infuriated by. His initial interest and intrigue in everything lost its novelty. Why this, why that, why who, why how? Why why why?

In his search for answers in his confined world, he found himself sinking into depression. "Why am I here? Who am I? Netzerbek said I spoke fancy. They way they looked at me. Am I that weird? Sure the blue alien may like me, but am I weird? Why am I worried about being weird? Is it because I'm weird? Why am I weird? What do I mean by weird? What is weird? Who defines it? Weird... Hmmm... An abnormality. Abnormal. The opposite of normal, the usual, the occasional, and the predictable.

"But why would they think I am weird? Because I'm not exactly like them? Why is such negativity attached with being different. Perhaps misunderstood. But that seems too generic. Generic... what is- stay focused. Perhaps the dislike is that I did not meet their expectations, according to the ork who declared himself superior to me."

Gretznuk stumbled and collapsed against the wall. "I feel the need for some sort of verification!" he thought as he pulled himself up. "But why do I feel this need I can only guess."

He growled beat the wall with his fists.

"But with every guess and new revelation comes more questions that I want to answer! But why do I want to answer? Why?! Do I seek answers? Reasons? Motivations? Why would I prefer one over the rest? Does it blind me? Why would other's knowledge be more valid that what I can figure?"

An ounce of pride grew in his chest.

"But why would I feel superior by making this statement? I'm not becoming superior, nor am I making myself equal by the assumption. Or am I?"

Gretznuk turned from the wall and looked at his hands.

"Do I truly know anything? Are answers real? If so, why are they real? Do they exist or are they... perhaps... a construct of my imagination? And if so, why have I imagined such? Do my questions matter? What is it to matter? Why would mattering matter at all?"

He felt something - a thought dangling on with fine strings to these other thoughts.

"Goals. All thoughts. Yes. They serve for goals. But what are my goals? But why do goals matter?"

Gretznuk stumbled back into the corner and slumped on the floor. "Thoughts. The other orks had anger. From a perspective, they were cursed with an unexplained anger. I, rather, am cursed with an anger coming from the unexplained."

"I think, therefore I am," said a voice.

Something about half the weight of the cylinder hit Gretznuk over the head. Little things then tapped around the sides, followed by a burning sting at the back of his head.

"Said a great philosopher the Terran's have long abandoned in favor for more primitive philosophies," the voice sqeaked.

"I've lost it... My sense of everything..." A sense of a loss of understanding overwhelmed him. " It's just gone..." Gretznuk sighed. "It's just madness."

"Is it madness, or is it simply the essence of your being?"

"What a nice voice," said Gretznuk. "Although you are giving me quite the ache at the back of the head. I suppose this is the opposite of a migraine. At least the pain feels better back there than at the front."

"Focus."

"On what? The essence of my being? It's a statement, sure, but the essence part and then the being... You seem like a pretty comforting voice, and I would like to ask myself about the concept of my desire in relation to what worth you have for me, but for the sake of brevity and the aversion from this... anxiety, I would like to ask, what do you mean? I expect more than simply putting words into my head from a voice that suggests a desire to be valued."

"As these walls are of deeper shades, you are of deeper thought."

"A very obvious observation, and quite flattering. But flattery will get you nowhere in my head!"

"But how is it flattering? You could ask yourself. After all, is not flattery a two person ordeal as with any other comment? Does it not require the other person to agree in particular in order to be truly flattery?"

"Get to your point. I'm intellectually as tense as it is."

"You think, therefore you are."

"I think, therefore I am? But who? But why?"

"Get to your point." The voice squeaked.

"I don't understand."

"The walls are of deeper shades, but why ask why they are of deeper shades? If it isn't going to help you achieve a greater purpose, the whole point of you, then why be concerned in the first place?"

"But I was never really given a greater purpose, and what is-"

"A greater purpose isn't something your given."

"The whole 'greater' business doesn't sound like it should be chosen."

"Yet often things aren't as they should sound."

"Then is it something I am born with?"

"It is something you identify with. Something that synchronizes with who you are."

"Becoming very declarative for a questioning voice, aren't we now? And explain this synchronization."

"Well, what's you?"

Gretznuk rested his head on his chin and reflected on himself. His traits. His differences with the other orks. The number of limbs he had, counting his head. His similarities with the other orks.

He rubbed his fingers against his face. Until now he had never noticed how small his jaw was compared to what he saw on the other orks, what he expected to see on himself. He traced his fingers up to his scalp and noticed the even path. While the other orks would have a slope from their scalp to their wider jaw, the angle from the base of his jaw to the crown of his head was of an even vertical level. "Oh," he said.

"Lord Captain Caius Augustus, reports have confirmed that the planetary governor is planning an insurrection within the next fourteen standard days."

"Thank you, Midshipman. Return to your post. You have served your duty to the Emperor."

The Lord Captain gazed upon the greenish-purple glow of the colonized planet. It was perhaps the most distant of any of the planets in the Ultima Segmentum and felt the full influence of the Emperor only from the single cruiser that watched from above. It's denizens were promised three days prior the watchful eye of a fleet that, unknown to them, had been destroyed by an ancient fleet of morbid origins. It was only a great vessel following the fleet as an escort that managed to come across the colonized world. The Inquisitor aboard sent agents down to the surface, and found that this post-industrial society shockingly lacked any presence of the Inquisition or any of the Emperor's forces for that matter. Sure, the planet had it's own militia, but they were not of the Emperor, rather of their own and using technologies advanced for such a separated worldwide colony.

The planetary governor elected held more influence and authority over the people than what the Inquisitor aboard the _Prime Fidelis VI _found to be comfortable. Thus, the vessel above the planet watched carefully for signs of resentment against what the planet's inhabitants referred to as the "Unknown god".

"Caius, the time has come to purge the heresy and show these people that their Emperor is no unknown god!"

"Indeed it is."

"I only ask you keep the ship ready for my return and to send word for reinforcements."

"Let me remind you that the Chief Astropath has been having difficulty reaching across the Warp."

"For this long? There must be Chaos forces upon this planet interfering with our communications. Permit me to deploy several accompanied detachments of Storm Troopers assigned to this ship to the planet's surface so that any heresy is purged swiftly."

"Inquisitor, are your colleagues not sufficient enough?"

The Inquisitor stepped closer to the captain, who winced at the stench at his breath. "If the forces of Chaos upon this planet are strong enough to give our Chief Astropath difficulty, I believe it is necessary to use as much strength as possible to purge them. The purging of heresy waits for no man."

The captain stepped back. "So be it. Take what is necessary, but do not expect me to cooperate to the letter. This is the third time you have demanded my forces suddenly, and I will not loose any more men in your mad, random purges."

The Inquisitor turned and began to leave, but stopped at the door leading out of the bridge. "Do not be surprised when I purge you for any heretical actions you may take." He then left.

Caius Augustus looked at the planet. Dread crawled up his neck, into his mouth, and down his throat. He swallowed. A bad feeling wiggled its way through his body, and his gut told him this wasn't going to end well for anyone.

"Midshipman! Alert the rest of the ship to high vigilance. I do not give permission for the departure of personnel and resources as of the immediate moment."


	11. Episode 11: An Unexpected Inquisition

**Episode 11**

**An Unexpected Inquisition**

* * *

The Inquisitor passed through the city streets, staring at the colonists around him. Some looked at him with curiosity, while others bumped into him without second thought. The air smelled of Chaos, but that could be the person in front of him who just farted. If Chaos was present it was well hidden in the thick urban environment that covered most of the planet. Not even the best of his colleagues could find a trace of a daemon or any other force of Chaos. Yet even if Chaos was not on this planet, heresy was abound.

His belief that only the planetary governor was involved in the revolt he soon realized was mistaken. On other planets, the populace followed the word of their leaders. Here there seemed to be absolute disregard for authority. In the streets citizens spoke their doubt not only in their government but also in the unknown god, the Emperor of Mankind. Others openly mocked his divine forces, making fun of the extremely religious tone of the mythical Imperium. The Inquisitor felt the urge to purge all of these colonists, to make an example out of some of them, but such a plan was futile as even the citizens were well armed and aware of their surroundings. However, no one feared him as an authoritative figure who dispensed the Emperor's Will and way to rowdy populaces. They saw the Inquisitor to be nothing but a confused man lost on his way to a costume party.

This planet could defend itself from the forces looming above, and a victory for them could encourage further heresy if anyone outside of the system found it. There was no use silencing the heretics now, yet the more he waited for reinforcements the greater it would grow. All this made him feel a level of discomfort he never though could exist.

Figuring that it would be best to wait in the air above and not provoke the populace any further, he lead his party back to the hangar bays only to find an armed force surrounding their craft. The Inquisitor bit his lip, ground his teeth, and approached the lead guard.

"Disperse your men, these craft belong to the Inquisition."

"Not until you pay the fine," said the guard, holding out an pink slip. "Unregistered weapons, unannounced cargo, landing without permission, no contact with the air tower, and a fuck-ton of other transportation violations."

"I said, disperse your men! These craft are of the Holy Inquisition!"

The lead guard grinned. "No. The Knights of Ladies Underwear have as much claim to these craft as you do." He waved the slip in the air. "I don't give twelve shits about this so called 'Inquisition'. Unless they can write us a check within the next thirty days these ships are grounded and will be impounded by the lawful authority of the Lord Regent of the Fifth City."

"IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR REMOVE THYSELF FROM THE PREMISES AND CEASE YOUR RESISTANCE!"

The guards stepped forward and trained their weapons on the Inquisitor's party. "In the name of lady bras and panties calm thy tone and pay thy bill, or go fuck thyself. Lest ye wish to be cast into the dungeons, ye baggart. Now speak plainly, as this tongue be pointless."

The Inquisitor scowled at the guard and dug into his pockets. He pulled them out and found only handfuls of lint. He looked to his party and they returned with shell casings, ration wrappings, beer tabs, and shrugs.

The guard crossed his arms. "No money, no fly."

"Surely we can negotiate a deal."

"You know what? Sure. You give me a few things me and my boys want, and we'll let you go."

"Alright."

"First, I want that woman's silly hat."

"What?"

"You heard me, give me her hat."

The Inquisitor turned to his companion who cautiously removed her cap. He then handed it to the guard.

Putting on the hat, the guard turned to his subordinates who gave their nodding approval. "Alright, how about the rest of you boys. What do you want from these violators of the law?"

"I would like her dress," said a guard. "I've always wanted a deep red dress, especially with armor."

"Alright," said the lead guard. "Anyone else?"

"Her gloves!" "Her boots!" "The clothes under!" "Her hair pins!" "Her panties!" "Her bra!" "Her socks!" They all cheered. More guards came around and joined in the fray, grabbing one another and pointing at the female Inquisitor.

They settled at a swift gesture of the hand. The lead guard grinned at the lead Inquisitor. "Easy boys, easy. Give the woman a chance to strip."

The lead Inquisitor stepped toward the guard. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"I believe I'm the one who should be asking that," said the lead guard. "Do you want to leave or be left to rot in prison?"

The Inquisitor looked at his female companion, who reluctantly began to take off her armor.

"You do not have to commit this heresy!"

She sighed. "Do you want to stand here and argue or return to the ship and contact reinforcements?"

"Fine," he spat.

One of the guards approached his superior and whispered in his ear. The lead guard grinned, and whispered to the subordinate, "You're a dirty bastard, but okay." He turned to the Inquisitor. "And one more special request. Fulfill this and we will cease all troubles as you leave."

"What is it?" the Inquisitor growled.

"Give us the woman."

"No."

"Fine. Boys, call the scrappers and set the charges." Rifles squealed on and pistol hammer's cocked. "The rest of ya, set your sights-"

Someone pulled Inquisitor back and the lead guard stopped. When the Inquisitor looked to see who it was, he found a naked female Inquisitor nodding. Pushing him aside, she stepped forward and two guards took to her sides, taking both of her hands, and lead her away while their companions kept their weapons trained on the Inquisition team.

The Inquisitors boarded their craft with a newfound dislike for the planet's inhabitants.

As the craft disappeared into the clouds, the lead Inquisitor looked past his reflection in the window to the planet surface zooming away.

"This planet will be purged," he muttered.

* * *

She stroked the throbbing cock with a deep lust.

Nephalut gazed into the terrified eyes of the Terran.

"H-heresy..." he groaned.

"Oh yes, let me be your sweet, sweet Heresy," she said in a soft, feminine voice. She stuck out her grey tongue and licked him. "You taste soooo good... We'll make a lovely batch."

Malat crawled on top of the Terran's shaved skull. Several long pins folded out from its stomach and came to rest on the skin. Malat's small face and six big eyes focused on Nephalut.

Nephalut received the biological readings and adjusted herself according to the quantity and quality of the hormones he was beginning to release. She altered the muscles in her throat and the structure of her face to produce the voice of his desire. Her face became soft and youthful - her lips thickened and the diameter of her black pearly eyes grew. Her hips swelled wide and her breasts supple and firm. Her abdomen adjusted to the appropriate ratio and her shoulders to the right length. Finally her hair shrunk down to a short cut with stunning bangs and turned to a fiery pink.

The hormone readings then told her that she had adjusted herself perfectly. The process reversed the sexual attraction but the end result brought it back to become twenty times stronger.

A pleased grin stretched across her face, and not just because she knew she was sexy. She grew closer to breaking open a religious mental block. "The Emperor..." he whispered.

She pressed her naked body against his and rubbed it up and down. Malat squeaked with amusement and sprayed lubricant between them. She breathed heavier and so did he. She could feel something big swell between her legs.

Tears welled in the Terran's eyes. "T-the... E-emperor..."

"The Empress," she replied.

"I am... loyal..."

"I am Heresy."

"I... c-can't..."

"I can."

She pulled him in and gave him the longest kiss she had given yet.

Kophtet turned away and covered where his ears would be if he was still organic. "Basep, cut the feeds. I've had enough of this perversion." The blue scarab squealed and smashed a glyph. The one-way windows darkened and the audio feed cut. Another blue scarab crawled onto the glyph-board next to Basep and squeaked with haste. Kophtet sighed and turned for the door. "Basep, let me know when this is over so the Oroskh doesn't harass me for leaving the console. Lord Szazadrekh needs me."

Kophtet descended in the lift several levels. The doors to the shaft opened into a large chamber. Across from the door, Szazadrekh was accompanied by four Lychguard overlooking a vast ocean of a liquid glowing neon cyan. The Lord, with hands behind his back, nodded and his Lychguard left. With his six legs Kophtet crawled to the side of the Lord.

"Kophtet... You know... I love... my scarabs..." He said in a heavy breath. "You... also know I hate... talking like this... but... it doesn't hurt to dabble... with... your peeeeve..." Belakh leaped from the ocean onto the Lord's shoulder. He squeaked with delight and nuzzled against his neck plating.

"But..." the Lord continued. "Practice... makes one near... perfection... which is... admired... by the other royalty..."

"Indeed, my dear friend. It never hurts to practice court manners while away."

"Yes. It is also nice to break such rules when you are not under the dreadful gaze of Lord Baszakareht."

"Oh, C'tan... That peculiar fellow."

"Indeed. He is a thorn in my side I wish was gone. However he is the dog of Krispekh, the Expansionist, and thus holds a greater influence in his word than my own, which makes it infuriating when plotting my fleet's course."

"I suppose your getting to-"

"He changed our course yet again. I would disassemble him and set him victim to the wrath of his own C'tan shard!"

"But where to, my Lord?"

"A place familiar."

"I beg your pardon, but you do remember I have no taste for games of rhetoric."

"Ah, yes..." Szazadrekh replied and flicked Kophtet's head.

Kophtet's gaze snapped to the Lord.

Szazadrekh chuckled. "Always the pissy-face, aren't we? Relax. When you're this royal respect can become a bore. Respect this, respect that. Soon there's so much respect that you can't have fun anymore and all eternity becomes an utter bore."

Kophtet turned back to the ocean. "My Lord..."

Szazadrekh flicked Kophtet again. "Kophy."

"Don't call me that."

"You're awfully stiff for a Necrontyr who used to hold the record for the softest dick."

"SZAZADREKH! Have some professionalism!"

"And you're still as deaf and unagreeable as Tarekh. Shame on you, you soul-less fuck."

"Watch your language!"

"Pbbt."

Belakh squeaked merrily.

"Well aren't you mature," Kophtet said to the Lord.

"Pbbt pbbt pbbt."

"That's nice and all, but can we get back to the-"

"Pbbbbt."

"Back to the-"

"Pbbbbbbbbbbbt."

"Can we get back to-"

"Pbbt pbbt pbbt pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt!"

"SZAZA-"

"PPPPBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBTTTTT!"

"Damn it, Lord Szazadrekh!"

The Lord flicked Kophtet's head once again. "Oh Kophy, always so dense. You were asking?" he chuckled.

Belakh clapped his claws in delight.


	12. Episode 12: Flesh Stealers

**Episode 12**

**Flesh Stealers**

* * *

"I'll leave if this is the reason I was needed."

Kophtet began to turn to leave, but Szazadrekh spoke. "My apologies for having a bit of fun, Cryptek. I simply needed to blow off some steam. Besides, don't you want to know why I really called you down here?"

"If you promise to speak without acting childish." Kophtet said, looking away.

"So be it. Well, I expect you to be a little more light hearted with the news being we are returning to your homeworld."

Kophtet turned to the Lord. "Don't you dare play me."

"Kophtet," Szazadrekh chuckled. "Would you be interested in some scientific research-"

"Of course, my Lord."

"With your companion, Nephalut?"

Kophtet stared at Szazadrekh.

"Hm?"

"My Lord, you know my answer."

"Ah, but this is your homeworld. Your family may lay in a slumbering tomb!"

Kophtet sighed and leaned on the railing overlooking the blue ocean.

"Of course, I could always send just you and a few Deathmarks and Immortals to the surface, as well as some War Wraiths." Belakh squeaked as the Lord pet him.

"War Wraiths? Why not the Canoptek Wraiths? Surely you would not give me such rabid units to assist me on my mission. You know I am for being delicate and precise."

"Says the Cryptek who used Sentinels to obtain two Ork specimens."

"You rarely use them!"

"They're primarily used for maintenance, and I always take great care for my personal scout frigate. I assumed you would use them to repair your craft if you came across those alien creatures usually aboard a Space Hulk."

"Well there were no gene-stealers and Nephalut... misplaced my Collection Spyder."

The Lord sighed and put his hand on Kophtet's shoulder. "Do me a favor, head down to the planet and collect yourself some specimens."

Kophtet looked at his Lord. "Planet? I sense an underlying motive in your tone."

"I have no intentions to hide anything, however I simply ask this for your sake." Szazadrekh nodded toward the glowing ocean in the vast chamber.

Kophtet looked at the liquid for a moment. "Wait a minute, its quite lower..."

Belakh leaped off Szazadrekh's shoulder into the liquid and vanished in its eerie glow, squeaking and releasing a steady stream of bubbles.

"Szazadrekh, what is Belakh doing?"

"Going to drain the hold."

The chamber shook, and the blue liquid parted and climbed up the walls and onto the ceiling, draining into open inlets. Where bodies were to hover in stasis there was nothing. Hundreds of thousands of life support and monitoring obelisks stood bare in the black chamber, now lit by the levitating liquid above them. Cables and tubes draped from the openings in the obelisks.

"You let her do this?!" Kophtet said. "You gave her access to the last of the specimens and subjects?"

"I had no idea. I'm as new to this as you, as I came moments before I called you and noticed a change in the Nyle level."

"How about your guards and Canopteks?! Where were they?!"

"Where they should be. You never specified entry and access permissions beyond rank."

Kophtet spun around. "Where's my staff?! BASEP!"

The little scarab carried the massive staff on his back down the lift. He left the blade doors of the lift and approached the Cryptek. He mounted on his hind legs and jumped, tossing the staff into Kophtet's hands.

Kophtet smashed his staff into the floor. He growled and the glow in his eight eyes flickered violently. "NephaLUUUUT!"

"Cryptek, calm down! I just polished these floors, and I'm not changing this fleets course to buy a bitchy Cryptek a new staff!"

Kophtet turned to his scarab. "Basep, find the the statistics of the last specimen stocklist."

Basep jumped onto the railing and began to squeak and squeal. Meanwhile the rattling of feet raced up from the chamber floor. The Lord looked down and saw Belakh hop onto the railing next to Basep. Both Cryptek and Lord watched as Belakh stalk up to Basep and stand next to him for a moment. Belakh leaned toward Basep and chirped. Basep ignored him and continued processing the statistics from the memory crystals.

Belakh chirped again.

Basep continued processing.

Belakh chirped louder.

"Belakh, stop," said Kophtet.

Belakh turned to the Cryptek, chirped, and then mustered all its strength to a reply: "PPPPBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBTTTT!"

The scarab the turned to Basep and shoved him off. "Pbbt pbbt pbbt pbbt!"

Basep screamed in terror as he fell. There was a loud snap, and then silence.

A long pause followed.

The Cryptek turned to the Lord. "Lord Szazadrekh..." His fingers scraped against his palms in his clenched fist.

Szazadrekh shrugged and sighed. "I guess that leaves you with one option, unless of course you want to get revenge like last time and vaporize another one of my favorite ships by 'accident', my dear Kophy."

The Cryptek scowled at the Lord and headed for the lift. He stopped as the bladed doors opened, turned, and said, "And I guess this empty room explains why Nephalut had such a nifty coat earlier. Szazadrekh, what 'specimens' litter my dormant homeworld? Are they well armed?"

"Not much different than that which filled this room."

"She can keep whatever she moved into the cell hold. Have Belakh mark them as post-fresh." The bladed doors seperated, and Kophtet entered the lift.

Szazadrekh watched the lift vanish into the shaft. When he was sure the Cryptek was gone, he leaned over the edge. Up the side crawled Belakh with Basep clinging on his back. Both of them giggled and chuckled to each other.

"Belakh, relay to the fleet that we are cloaking when we're within range of the planet and that we'll be on standby for an invasion to awaken our brethren if needed. Also, tell the collection frigates to move to the front of the fleet and prepare for a large reaping. I want several legions ready for phasing down to the surface for a swift strike against any resistance."

Belakh hopped onto the railing and set Basep back on his feet. He then began squeaking and chirping.

"We're being contacted? By who?"

Belakh sighed.

"Azultep..." The Lord slammed his staff onto the floor. "C'tan's, have mercy upon us."

Basep squeaked optimistically.

"Yes, yes... your former master. But knowing him, he's surely going to ask for something, and everyone knows he's not the type to negotiate." Szazadrekh took and placed Belakh and Basep on his shoulder plates. "Alright you two, send communications that all fleet ships be set on high alert, remain vigilant, and be prepared for the worst. Azultep is coming."

* * *

Passion shot through his whole body. He twisted and turned in his bindings, his limbs and torso now lubricated with oils, saliva, sweat, and some snot.

He felt the front half of his brain curve into itself and squeeze. The room around him spun and his limbs felt heavier than ever. The pulsing veins in his arms, legs, face, chest, abs, and genitals felt like they were ready to burst.

His lips felt chiseled, cracked, and rough. He could taste a salty, metallic taste in his mouth. It tasted like blood. Although saliva poured from the corners of his mouth, inside it felt like dry sponge. All of his flesh felt like static and he began to see the colors coming into his vision distort in the image.

He panted furiously. His lungs burned with a rage at a level he never felt before, a level of pain that not even the most intense of training on the most desolate of moons could produce. But then there was the intense pleasure.

His wife back on the colony world was beautiful. Night after night while waiting to be called for service, they would make sweet, sweet love. Her voluptuous body solidified his loyalty to the Imperium as well as how much of a brute she was an officer in the colony. Her mistress-hood she brought into the bedroom on special occasions.

He had longed for her all these years, swearing his loyalty to his wife and to the Emperor of Mankind. He would never betray her as he would never betray his Emperor. It was this faith of his that kept him marching endlessly into the abyss of oblivion and back.

But now he questioned that very faith. The heresy was strong here, stronger than what he could ever imagine. He found the whores and succubi of Chaos disgusting, but this was no Chaos ship. Nor was it any ship he could remember or recognize.

He thought about it with the remaining clarity he had. He found his foe on a colony planet calling for an SOS.

"Men, what we face today is a foe like none other," his commissar said. "It appears the dead have risen as well as great tombs of some dead human race. What great heretic caused this, only the Emperor knows. But that matters not, for whether this is some sorcery of Chaos or a madness contrived by some perverse Eldar, we will cleanse this planet of it!"

"Glory to the Emperor!" they chanted as their pod entered the thick layer of dark clouds corrupting the world's atmosphere.


	13. Episode 13: Filthy Mind Screw

**Episode 13**

**Filthy Mind Screw**

* * *

The lead guard entered the kitchen.

It was a gorgeous place, designed with sweeping curves and generous brush strokes of paint. Everything breathed relaxation with pastel colors - such as a calming mixture of light brown and lime green, and behind every edge there was a light blue or green tint to repel any dark shadow. A glass chandelier floated above the center island, where a shimmering glass top decorated the wine bottles and herbs beneath.

In its array of glowing crystals that slowly spun in midair, it cast gentle shadows and a subtle incandescent light that provided a contrast that did not muck up the pastel colors or left the kitchen to be irritable to look at for long periods of time.

A glass overlook hung off the overhang of law enforcement headquarters. A waterfall ran underneath, and its soothing roar could be heard under the wooden floor. It cooled the air and the water naturally perfumed the air with the gentle scent of mint.

The ebony marble slab tumbled back into place, closing off the kitchen. On the velvet couch lay the naked Inquisitor, hair curled in between her fingers. Softly she snored while a large feral cat licked her tummy.

"Myrary, shoo!" whispered the guard.

The large cat growled and rubbed its head against the Inquisitor's stomach, waking her.

She stretched along the couch and pet Myrary before the red lioness slipped away toward the guard. She passed him to the door, but stepped on his feet. He gritted his teeth as the large cat put all of her weight into every step. She purred as the slab closed behind her.

"She seemed rather... sad," said the Inquisitor. "What girl wouldn't want to see the face of another girl in this sausage hut?"

The lead guard chuckled. "Quite the sense of humor, eh? I like that." He took off his hat and tossed it on an adjacent sofa. He then unbuttoned his coat and tossed it right on top of it.

"Here you are, gorgeous. Spread across that sofa like Venus. You got a lot of time to burn, and so do I." He walked over to her with a persuasive grin. "And those curves? Mmm, mmm." Then he started to unbutton his shirt. "It'll be getting a bit steamy in here. Wouldn't want to faint from a heat stroke in the middle of it all. That wouldn't be too impressive."

He sat on the arm of the sofa, and she cautiously let him grab her left foot. "Because you haven't disappointed me already."

With his lower palms he pushed in and around under he toes. He chuckled. "Oh, you! I like me a sassy woman, and your so full of it that I don't know whether or no you're trying to insult me or tempt me."

"And I'd be bland and predictable if I wasn't doing both. I do admit, your taste isn't that bad, but that doesn't make it good." With her other foot she stroked his stubble. "A little unshaven for a man in uniform. How pitiful."

"You know, this is beginning to sound like a bad porno. My fault of course."

She rose and drew closer to him. "At least your aware."

He pulled her in and mashed his face against hers. Gushy noises came from the kiss as they wrestled tongues. After a long moment, he let go and the chair's back caught his collapse.

"So let's get down to business," he said in a heavy breath.

* * *

Gretznuk's finger ran down the side of his head again.

"You have been obsessively rubbing your head for quite a while now," squeaked the voice.

"The upper half of my head feels even with the lower jaw. I used to be quite sure I was like the other orks, but now the assurance is not there," Gretznuk replied, running his finger up the side of his head once more.

"There's nothing shameful about being simply wrong, especially here and now as your only audience is me. I do not have passions for right and wrong, simply comments and suggestions I have come to assume may help your cause for curiosity."

"But others knew I was wrong when I told them I was like them, when I grouped myself with them."

"And do you know where they are now?"

"Assuming your just a voice in my head, I think you know."

"It's impossible in recalling where your friends went to waste effort, considering you've been here for quite a while and assuming from experience that we'll be here for quite longer."

Gretznuk scratched his nose. "Oh assumptions, assumptions... so many assumptions yet no real knowledge or answers."

"Ah, by that do you mean just in here when you are cut off from the rest of all that exists or perhaps everywhere else."

"Obviously the first."

"Obviously? How do you know?"

"Well, you can't base everything off assumptions... I guess."

"Why devalue assumptions?"

"Because assumptions are nothing but hot air, and you can't just assume things... and because I'm sure you can't make something work if it's based on an assumption. The Cylinder didn't work but all I assumed was that I'd make something useful."

"You perceived that the Cylinder didn't work."

"It didn't."

"Perception leads to assumptions."

"Perception leads to knowledge."

"How do you know?" the squeaky voice asked.

"Because I can test what I perceive and I can find reliable knowledge in my results. I can predict outcomes."

"But not the Cylinder, which quite useful to over nine thousand other perceptions who would prefer it's given use."

"Just because nine thousand other 'perceptions' like it doesn't mean it works."

"The key thought here, as it always has been, is perception. You assume it doesn't work and others will observe and assume it does work. Therefore, the Cylinder both worked and didn't work."

"That's not logical. It contradicts itself."

"Really now? Tell me, oh smart one, what is logic based off? What makes an, as they call it, ad hominem attack or an appeal to authority a fallacious argument?"

"Reality?"

"The assumptions that have been made from what many perceive around them. No one has observed an argument faulty because of the poor traits of the presenter, neither has anyone observed an argument valid only because of one's claims to authority."

"But those assumptions have been verified."

"How do you know? Have you seen them verified, young one?"

"No. But even if I haven't, it doesn't make any sense."

"Ah, an appeal to one's perception of the world around them. 'Because its confusing to me because I have not experienced it or can comprehend it, therefore it is invalid'. I love that argument. The basis of all ignorance and knowledge."

"You have an interesting duality of thought," Gretznuk said. "So according to you, the most informed person is also the most ignorant."

"Nope and yep."

"And the most ignorant person is the most knowledgable."

"Yeseeerrie and nuh uh!"

"And the least knowledgable is the least ignorant."

"You can mix them all you like and it's a yes, a no, and perhaps a maybe."

"So if everything is nothing and nothing is everything, what's the point of trying to figure things out? Why bother even thinking at all if I already know everything and nothing?"

"I think you know that answer," said the voice.

"I don't, and I doubt anyone intelligent does to a question with a bunch of unfounded, undemonstrated ideas."

"Then I guess I'll have to answer myself for you. Everybody- most people- a considerable amount of sentient life uses the their perceptions, their assumptions, and their intuition to overcome obstacles to achieve a set goal. Such observers understand their reality as much as they can perceive. For an observer alive for the fraction of a split moment, anyone living longer than two moments is immortal or dead. For an observer bound to a world of water, nothing can live for long periods of time out of the water. These two examples are sometimes true, yet other times not. After all, there is no such thing as absolutes. Sometimes there are and are not."

"So you're telling me that you, a voice in my head, has been around for a lot longer than myself."

"Indeed."

"And you've 'perceived' a lot?"

"Yae, verily."

"And you want to direct this discussion to being about goals... and let me guess, you're going to give me one."

"Nope," said the squeaky voice. "I'm going to help you find one. Thus, our common life goal that is preferable for the sake of immediacy and no necessarily efficiency in your brief existence as of yet is to find your life goal, for now. What's your input?"

"I'm fine with it," although Gretznuk's voice betrayed quite the opposite. A look of strong doubt and distrust that endured the conversation was still on his face. "Seeing as there's the possibility you might get me out of here so I can find some answers."

"Good thinking! So now the most logical thing to do, as I see it, that would help us out immensely is for me to come out of your head. It will work for the better as you wont look so... peculiar."

Gretznuk looked at his finger tips, still scarred from the missing nails. "I suppose this involves some personal mutilation?" Some concern was in his voice. Finger and toe nails were one thing, but his head? For sure he'd look very peculiar with a missing chunk of head.

"Maybe it's a lot simpler than you think."

* * *

The captain looked to the planet, watching the flickering of lightning under the clouds around the equator and the shimmering lights at the poles. His hands were still folded stiff, his fingers stuck in their position. In his mind he counted estimates. "I used this many rounds of ammunition in our last run in with orks, meaning..." He kept counting, fearing their ship would never be able to make it back to familiar territory. "Food will last us another two standard years if no trade is made down on the surface..." But he felt they were closer to running out of supplies than what the last stock check said. All he could think of now is heading home, but the damned Inquisitor was too stubborn. He always said loyalty to the Emperor would pull them through. At first it encouraged the crewmen, but soon doubt passed through the ship like the plague, resulting in a couple of hundred being executed and then ejected into space. "Perhaps," he thought. "I can leave the Inquisitor and his friends behind. But what if they get communication back up?" Although death was not looking the captain in the eye, the fickle bastard was peaking out from the shadows and the corners of his eyes.

"He stares a lot, doesn't he?" said one officer.

"Pfft. If you had to work with an pissy Inquisitor with a knack for purging for the past few standard months, would you be able to look at anyone's face?"

"We'll I'm not saying anyone's face, but-" A hand grabbed his shoulder and he stopped.

"Keep your voices down, the Inquisitor's coming. And you know what he thinks of the slightest complaint."

"Goddamn heresy. I'm pretty sure he's committed a few-"

"Shut it!" The midshipman smacked the officer over the head.

"Midshipman?" The captain's voice bellowed.

He turned around and cleared his throat. "Oh don't mind our chatter, Captain. We're just passing some poor old jokes around to... um... keep our morale! We just finished this one, and won't tell anymore until the Inquisitor passes."

"Keep your word. I don't need another ship wide purge from that..." The captain coughed heavily. "Bastard."

A few officers turned slightly to the captain and grinned. The Lead Inquisitor was a respected guest, but not a wanted one. Yet there were those who would still willingly report any act against the Inquistion, including the Chief Astropath.


	14. Episode 14: Jitter Bugs

**[ANNOUNCEMENT: I've been rather busy lately irl making it hard to post a new Episode each of these past three days. (considering the fact that the past thirteen had been written days before posting). The intended Episode 14 is still in a draft phase, and so I've decided to move it to be Episode 15. However, the plot must go on! So here's some filler. I'll post Episode 15 tomorrow morning (as of writing this, which technically it is 'tomorrow morning' as it is past midnight). I thank you loyal readers, all 30+ of you for continually reading my work. I hope you have enjoyed it so far!]**

* * *

**Episode 14**

**Jitter Bugs**

* * *

Balekh and Basep zipped around the chamber, checking for any defects in the obelisks, floors, and walls.

Basep, after finishing his half of the room, jumped into a puddle of Nyle and rolled around in the glowing blue. He squeaked in delight and splashed all around.

Balekh looked at his co-worker with pure boredom. But it wasn't long before, he hissed in amusement. With a plan in mind, he scurried behind an array of obelisks and startedto chill some Nyle puddles.

Basep rubbed the glowing blue all over his small torso and made bubbles in his small pool, paying no attention to the other side of the room. Azultep visiting was the only thing on his mind as it meant one thing, and one thing only.

Food.

Especially baked delicacies, the most common being cakes.

In one of Azultep's wonderful trips across the galaxy in his quest of cheer and mischief, he had found a certain Cryptek who gladly offered his services to the infamous Necron Lord. One of such was augmenting scarabs for special purposes. To the very word of the Necron Lord's order, the Cryptek made it so Basep could process various forms of glucose, fructose, and sucrose and other base sweeteners in most deserts while being able to break down the food into gasses used to make flatulence that smelled rather lovely - the fragrance comparable to that of flora genera such as Rosa and Lavendula.

And while Basep's chemical taste receptors simulated the flavor of fruit cake, a large chilled ball of Nyle snow cast a growing shadow on him.


	15. Episode 15: Being Dominated

**Episode 15**

**Being Dominated**

* * *

The machine crawled towards him on six legs attached to a horrific abdomen below a four armed torso. The heresy was of a Servitor's nightmare with segmented tentacles sprouting from it's spine and impaling the Terran's friends up their ass and out their mouths. The human kababs twitched and moaned as they slid down the twisting tentacles of the metallic beast. A blue oil dripped out of the impaled victim's orifices, some of it bubbling out of their mouths and ears.

The Terran leaped into a nearby trench and ran for his life, but when he saw the intensity and determination of his pursuer the dreadful realization of his futile effort came mind. Even with six arachnid legs the beast seemed to glide over the trenches.

He called out to his friends to help him. They jumped out from behind corners and unloaded lasers, plasma, and armor piercing rounds into the beast, yet their weapons were too slow to fire. More tentacles burst from the monster's back and picked away at the soldiers, leaving an empty length of trench behind it. The tentacles shot through their mouth and burst out their assholes and soon the soldiers joined their drugged, impaled comrades in a drapery of organic bodies leaking of blue.

The Terran swore he could hear moans of pleasure with every impaling. He felt the urge to look behind, but his fear was too great. The length of Trench shrunk faster than he hoped, because if he ran into a dead end or came out of the trench too fast, he would join the ranks of the beast's impaled.

And then he heard the voices...

Of hundreds of Space Marines charging the beast. Never before had the soldier ever felt such joy at the roar hundreds of angry brutish men. Seeing the beast distracted, the Terran pushed his legs to the limit as salvation was at hand. A ramp in front of him ascended out of the trench. He burst into a painful sprint over his limit. His vision began to fade and his head felt lighter, and he felt his body leaning forward too much. Falling now meant death. But even with his gut churning with every step and thrust of the arm, he kept going. He would be free. He wanted to be free. He wanted his asshole and mouth to be free of the vicious kebab monster's tentacles.

He stumbled out of the trench and landed face first on the ground. Dread shot through his skin. But before he lost his spirit, a legion of the Adeptus Astartes charged over him, shouting, "For the Emperor!" He picked himself up and the air around him blew against his face amongst the sea of blue storming the monster. In this moment of heroics he still fled, not out of cowardly fear but out of a prey's deeper instinct. His gut told him that he would not be safe even behind the Emperor's finest.

Ahead of him stood ruins of a colony where all the Space Marines were charging from. If he could make it there, perhaps he could escape the glare of his predator. He made his way on light feet, weaving through the large bodies of these raging war machines.

After he entered the ruins, he dodged a few charging Marines, slid behind cover, and reloaded his gun. He was safe, so it seemed.

He peaked over the cover and saw the machine's tentacles puncture Space Marine armor. The mechanical beast continued to pierce his way through the Emperor's finest, stacking impaled body after impaled body on a death kebab.

The Terran cocked his rifle and ran from cover to cover, hoping the creature wouldn't catch him. He kept his head down as more of the Adeptus Astartes plowed onward to their deaths - they were thinking that with large numbers, coordinated strikes, and great firepower they could overwhelm the beast. But more armored warriors joined the drapery of flesh, and the beast showed that it could not be overwhelmed by mere numbers and elite strategy.

No matter how hard he ran, the beast was always behind him and quickly closing in. He continued running down a labyrinth of crumbled alleyways. Yet with every glance over his shoulder, he saw the monster bashing concrete apart and twisting steel beams and rebar that stood in his way with a storm of segmented metallic tentacles.

The Terran leaped into an open cellar doorway. Hitting the floor face first, he scrambled to his feet and sprinted to an adjacent doorway. He pushed it, but it refuged to budge. Outside the beast's thundering footsteps stopped. The Terran turned to look and saw the great abomination glare at him with a multitude of glowing green eyes. It bellowed and grabbed the two halves of its chest armor with its four arms and struggled to tear it open. It groaned in deep pleasure as its chest plates ripped open, releasing a swarm of thousands of little mechanical bugs.

The Terran aimed and shot the hinges, kicked down the door, and continued running into another room, this one longer and filled with all kinds of boxes. He could hear the collective whir of a legion of mechanical bugs racing toward him.

On the other side he could see an opening to a tunnel. With the swarm on his heels, he stumbled over boxes and knocked shelves over to leap into the foul abyss.

The Terran landed feet first onto something squishy. When he tried to lift his feet, the floor would suck back just as hard. Either it was mud, dirt, or rotting corpses. No matter what it was, it didn't matter now. The swarm was after him, and as he continued to run the beast's steps thundered above. How it was able to sense him so precisely, he could only guess it was the swarm following him.

The tunnel twisted and bended around, yet with every curve the Terran grew more anxious. He'd turn a corner and would hear victims moaning for an end to their suffering in front of him and then the echo of the swarm behind him. At intersections and forks in the tunnel, he always chose the direction where the screams weren't so loud.

He put all of his strength into sprinting. He was one of the best sprinters in his platoon and never before had it occurred to him that something with more than two legs would outrun him. His feet and calves cried in pain, but he did not stop running, not even when he checked his ammo. With only two magazines, there was no way he would be able to kill this monster. All he could do was hope he could find somewhere to hide.

The tunnels soon led to a large cistern with a stench twice as potent. Through the rusted grating above, dirty light from the orange skies above poured in. Across the expanse of the cistern was another tunnel.

He jumped into the sludge and his boots sunk all the way in. He was tempted to barf up the morning's rations, but he knew better.

He reached for his radio, but the sash pocket was empty. "Shit."

Metal screeched against metal. He looked up and watched dozens of tentacles rip out the grating that separated the cistern from the polluted skies above. He ran for the other side.

He could hear his heart smash against the inside of his chest and his lungs ached as though they were being scraped from the inside. He leaped onto a platform and pulled himself over. On his stomach, he reached out for the ground and pulled it towards him.

Behind him he could hear the whooshing of the monster's tentacles racing for him. He rolled over and emptied a clip into the slithering metal storm rushing towards him. The bullets didn't penetrate, but rather deflected the tips away from his direction, buying him a few more seconds.

He reloaded and aimed again. A tentacle struck his gun away before he could pull the trigger, and a pair wrapped around his legs and pierced the ground, pinning them. He looked to their source and saw the beast loom over the cistern on six extended arachnid legs. It looked down on him. Although the beast had a stiff face, the Terran had a feeling that it was enjoying every moment of this.

One tentacle slowly made its way towards him, where it was going directly made him feel both disgusted and horrified.

Out of the tunnel he had come from the swarm emerged and flew back into the host's chest.

"This is it," he thought as he looked up to the drapery of kebabed humans, each tentacle impaling dozens.


	16. Episode 16: Changing Positions

**Episode 16**

**Changing Positions**

* * *

The Inquisitor stepped onto the bridge.

Silence blanketed the room.

"Lord Captain."

The captain turned to his guest. "Inquisitor, I know your question. No, you are not permitted to use any ammunition or supplies for any more impulsive purges."

"But they have kidnapped one of our own."

"One of YOUR own," replied the captain as he pointed to the floor and moved his finger across. "Inquisitor, look at my finger."

The Inquisitor looked at is finger.

"I am drawing a line - both literally and figuratively. Your people are your people and my people are my people. I will assist you, but not at the expense of my crew and myself."

The Inquisitor's face twisted and turned. His gloves squeaked as he tightened his fists.

"We may have faith, but there comes a time when you must stop believing salvation will come by its own accord out of appreciation of good works."

"Are you denying faith in our Emperor out of the fear of death, captain? I would not have expected such cowardice from an honorable man such as yourself."

"Inquisitor, it is not out of fear of death, but out of desiring to live a while longer so I may serve his greater will." He wore a fragment of a courageous smile that was much like his words, deceitfully loyal and brave.

The Inquisitor and the Lord Captain glared at each other for quite a while. A few officers coughed every now and then, otherwise the silence remained unbroken.

"Then what do you suggest captain?" said the Inquisitor. "That we simply ask for her back?"

"I do not know, Inquisitor. That's something you must solve for yourself with whatever you brought onto the ship."

The Inquisitor shoved his index finger into the Captain's face. "Hear me now, Lord Captain Caius Augustus, if me and 'my people' fail to bring about the Emperor's will or suffer any definite casualties, then the fault will be placed upon you and you will face the consequences."

"So be it," the captain said. He turned back to the planet. "You may leave at your discretion, Inquisitor."

* * *

The lesser Inquisitors waited for their lead's return near their shuttle. They had a notion similar to the Lord Captains, theirs being out of their own numbers and resources.

"Of course, he'll come to us and announce his plan for a grand global purge," said the tall one. "Because we can apparently do everything in the name of the Emperor."

"Indeed," said an Inquisitor with cuts, scars, and burns covering his face. "But the work of the Emperor does not go by faith alone, nor by every word that proceeds from his mouth. Resources are still a must, and wasting them on such needless purges is a heresy within itself. Like I've always said, it was a heretical idea to put that guy in charge."

"We're all the same rank, experience, and expertise," said the short one. "I don't see why we don't appoint another."

"Charisma and a certain appeal to people," said the quiet one.

"Well Cut-face over here has just as much experience with people. You can the honesty on his face," said the short one.

They all grinned.

"Of course, Cut-face does have experience with people, but Mr. In-Charge has a way with words and can... well... negotiate."

"So did our colleague," said Cut-face. "And she did excel at it far better than any of us here."

"But she wasn't as bold and outward as Sir Inquisitor Purge-A-Lot."

"Of course. She was too sensitive, empathetic, and optimistic for her own good."

"And look where that got her," said the short one. "In a sausage hut I bet."

"She probably empathized with the guards. Half of those young guys looked like they hadn't seen a blonde for centuries," said Cut-face.

"Of course, it was easy to tell there wasn't much blondes on their planet, neither redheads," said the tall one as he twisted his scarlet hair between his fingers.

"To be honest, she was sexy and I bet half of us here-"

"Wanted to stick it in her," the quiet one interrupted Cut-face.

"And the Quiet Boy already knows what we're going to say, as usual," said the short one. "With listening skills that in-tune, why don't we replace Sir Purge-A-Lot with him? He's the ideal candidate."

"Of course, it isn't that hard to figure that we all wanted to do her, some time along this boring voyage. After all, isn't that why we're all here?"

They all chuckled for a moment, but stopped at the echo of a loud clap.

"Motivated by the idea of fornicating with a co-worker while on duty. My, my. How far have we, the Inquisition, fallen?" said the lead Inquisitor, walking in. A forced grin was on his face, yet his eyes spoke of disappointment and frustration.

"Why hello Sir Purge-A-Lot!" said Cut-face. "We were worried for a second that you decided to purge this ship for the seventieth time. Or was it the seven hundred and seventieth?"

"Who can tell?" said the short one. "Not like I'm going to bother keeping count."

The lead Inquisitor's grin faded into a grimace. "I repeat my same question as before, how far have we fallen?! Here you are laughing and joking about our work as if it were a simple matter to be tossed aside! It is our work that keeps the Emperor's will alive, that keeps humanity alive! Now do not jest, because if those heretics were still aboard we would've been dead long ago. Purging their existence not only helps the Emperor's work, but helps us all in the long run."

"Well you see, Purge-A-Lot, sometimes committing mass genocide on a routine basis can be quite tiring. It can really wear people out," said the short one.

"Of course," said the tall one. "Take the ancient Nazi's for example. A holocaust later they were all bent out of shape and were soon defeated by the Allies. All that continuous purging did was wear them out and get them killed."

"So what? Abandon the Emperor's work and take up sloth and laziness?" said the lead Inquisitor.

"Perhaps there's another way to do his work," said Cut-face. "I'm pretty sure there are other ways besides mass genocide to win hearts and minds for the Emperor's glory."

"Yea, yea. Like uh, take the Spanish Inquisition, our ancestor organization, for example," said the short one. "I'm pretty sure they had some public relations going on besides the torture and the killing. Maybe charity work like food pantries and soup kitchens and cooking classes?"

"Of course, marketing would be a great way to introduce these accidentally ignorant colonists to their 'unknown god'. We'd have plenty of allies and a smaller workload."

"A million alive are better allies than a million dead," said the quiet one.

"Maybe we could even recruit and train some new members to our Ordos."

The lead Inquisitor's fury maintained its heat. "So long as we can eliminate the ignorance below, I will be satisfied." He stormed away from their presence.

Once he was gone from earshot, the short one said, "Thank the Emperor's Will that we didn't appoint him as a permanent leader."

"Of course. Let's agree here and now never to allow him near the position of Master Inquisitor, or any higher lest their be a horrible genocide grand enough to be borderline heresy."

"Agreed," the others said.

* * *

Kophtet returned to the observation room. Several cycles had passed and Nephalut was still 'experimenting' with the Terran. He activated the recording glyph. "Note to Self: Assess fellow Crypteks before shoving Sekher up a notable specimen's anus." He half regretted his decision, the other half of him still enjoying that moment every time he remembered it. This Terran had struggled so vigorously even with a Sekher halfway through him and pumping him full of numbing agents. His strength and endurance brought an orgasmic pleasure to Kophtet's senses.

When he watched his colleague have his - _or her_ \- way with the Terran, he still regretted his decision, no matter how pleasurable the experience was. No amount of Nyle bathing would ever wash away such regret.

The Terran awoke from his memory into the present and watched in horror as the blue xeno shoved her arm up a place that he was still very sore in. She was having more fun than he was, but what kept Johnny the Plumber stiff as a pipe was her body, even if her attempts at pleasuring his senses were both painful and disgusting.

Nephalut kept a happy smile on her face even though she was shoving her hand in a place she surely doubted was the most sensitive in a pleasurable way. She looked at her scarab companion. Malat shrugged. "Leave it to Malat to find the most sexually pleasurable of techniques," she thought. Certainly she would make sure that this part in the visual recording would be removed, even if it meant attacking her fellow Cryptek just to cut it out.

"Need a break?" Kophtet's voice echoed over the audio glyph. "You look a little tired. Like my father used to tell me, 'If the plumbing still doesn't work and you've already made a big mess, leave it alone and get a professional'."

"Not all of us have useful tentacle things," she replied. "And I will not let you kill this one."

"Well it isn't like you're doing a better job," Kophtet chuckled.

Nephalut stopped and sighed. She looked into the Terran's eyes, still wet with tears. "I'll be out in a few moments. I need to finish," she said. Rising off her knees, she kissed him deeply, tongue and all.

Kophtet shut off the audio glyph on his end. Basep then appeared on his shoulder. "Check on Szazadrekh, will you? I'll be cleaning my lab floors. Let me know if Azultep is here yet."


	17. Episode 17: Faster and Harder

**Episode 17**

**Faster and Harder**

* * *

Gretznuk felt something snap off the back of his head, the sting became a fading pain. A mechanical scarab three of Gretznuk's hand widths long and two wide fell into his lap. Its five eyes fixated on the orks face. "And how are you?" It chirped.

He fell back, eyes bulging in shock.

"Ah yes, I am more than just a voice in your head."

Gretznuk pulled himself back up and rubbed the fading pain behind his head. There was a fresh cut circle in his skin that bled all over his fingers.

"What did you do to the back of my head?!"

"I'd give it a few moments to heal. In the meantime, let's get you out of this cell and find your goal in life!"

Questions flooded Gretznuk's mind, these now with a purpose greater than curiosity. Who was this thing? Why was it on his head? Why was it really interested in him? What would an ork like Gretznuk have to offer such a thing? How did it speak in his head? An endless sea of questions spewed forth and drowned the ork.

Gretznuk forced his thoughts into a silence, although still difficult a little easier to do every time he did it. The little machine squeezed out of the door's blades and zipped down the hallway into the darkness.

Confusion, intrigue, and paranoia crept up the young ork's back. Something definitely wasn't right here. From what knowledge appeared in his head, he figured that no ordinary prisoner would be treated so loosely. The guards should have set him down somewhere more secure after he had been able to free himself from his cell. And why did they let that metal bug in and out of the cell? Instinct suggested that he wasn't actually being held captive in the sense of pure confinement, rather he was being used, perhaps tested. A blue alien with interest in his intellect, guards who were resilient and apathetic, and a bug that was interested in helping him find his life goal.

It all made sense to him. He was being manipulated. Who was in charge, setting such a horrible plan in motion, was beyond his interest at the moment. He needed to know more first - perhaps he should place his bets on the bug.

The guards pulled back from the cell door and disappeared into the depths of the hall. As their footsteps faded away, the rata-tat-tat of small insect feet across the living metal floor echoed louder. Out of the blades in the corner of the door crawled the metal bug. It was whistling a merry tune in a strange minor key.

The blades opened and the bug stood on its hind legs.

"Follow me," it chirped. The little thing turned around and vanished into the darkness that filled the hall.

With no other reasonable options on hand, Gretznuk followed the sound of the bug's small feet.

"Do-de do, do-de do, do de-de-de do," it squeaked. "Tally ho, keep up with me! We don't have all cycle for you to dabble about!"

After some time of wandering in complete darkness, Gretznuk heard the bug slam into something else metal. It squeaked in pain and shook it off with a rattle.

"Maintenance shafts!" it said. "Have the honor, companion."

Cautiously, Gretznuk lowered himself to the floor.

"Distracting guards isn't hard, but reassembling an organism from ashes is. Hurry up, you green turd of a mouth breather!"

Gretznuk found the shaft to be wider inside than at the opening. Yet he left his guard up. "And why are we going into these shafts?"

"To find a way off this ship!" said the bug. "Don't worry about finding any other maintenance bugs, they're currently busy at their stations on high alert. Speaking of it, let's avoid the main hangar. There'll be too many eyes to see us."

"Hmm..." said Gretznuk. He doubted whether or not it was a good idea. It sounded like a horrible trap.

"Let's go!" the bug said and then kicked Gretznuk's bum into the dimly lit hole.

The ork stumbled forward and hit his head on the floor. He rose onto his elbows and rubbed his sore head. Never did he assume that a bug that small had such strength. Nevertheless, he then said, "I beg your pardon, but have some patience! And please do lead."

"Do you want to live or die? Also, you can go and take the left up ahead."

"Why don't you go and take the left up ahead?"

"Because I'm not going to scour the depths of the maintenance substructure just to find your sorry ass hooked to an obelisk in the Nyle chamber. Now hurry up! Time waits for nobody!"

Gretznuk didn't trust the bug, but he wondered how he could put it in a way not to aggravate the small mind. The critter was in an empowered position.

"I would gladly climb up your back and find out what the fresh kalalophetikh you are thinking about, however that would simply waste the time that YOU'RE ALREADY WASTING!"

"Can I trust you?!"

The bug chirped angrily and firmly slapped the ork's butt. "I'm very trustworthy with handling and finding my way around big butts, I assure you! Now move!"

Gretznuk began to crawl along the maintenance shaft while the bug behind him kept poking his bottom with its pointy legs.

"Come on, come on! Let's get a move on!"

"Very angry and impatient for a little bug, are we?" Gretznuk said.

"Very slow and suddenly stupid for a big walking green turd, are we?" said the bug. "My cousins could roll a poopball faster than this! Go! Go! Go!"

* * *

"Let's get down to business," her host said.

She spread herself on the couch, ready.

He walked to the door in the kitchen and left.

She smiled. "A little surprise?" Deep down she knew this was borderline heresy. "But fuck it," she thought. "I'm judge, jury, and executioner, and after that long ass time on board that trash heap with four incompetents and Sir Purge-A-Lot I do deserve a break, even if that break means taking it up the ass from a bunch of horny young boys on a planet far away from the Imperium."

His footsteps outside the door grew louder.

"I wonder what toys they play with." She stretched out on the exceptionally cozy sofa.

The door opened, and in rolled a large cart carrying several large brown paper bags.

"Oh," she chuckled.

The lead guard laughed as he pushed the cart. "I bet it's been a while since you've done this. You look quite experienced."

"Oh, quite aware, are we? I can't wait."

The lead guard lifted one of the bags. The clanging of what sounded like stainless steel on stainless steel inside the bag sent goosebumps down the Inquisitor's spine.

"I even got the ones with the rubber tips," he said and dropped the bag on the counter. The loud slump on the counter sent another wave of goosebumps down the Inquisitor's spine. Her eyes widened and she gripped the couch as she counted off the bags on the cart and the counter. One... five... seven... thirteen... fifteen...

Fifteen paper bags filled with things she could only fantasize about. "They sure are devious," she thought. Such strength and creativity could advance the Emperor's will farther than any one could have ever realized. She decided there that she would try to win the colonist's favor. They were more than outcasts, they were miracles waiting to be bestowed upon the rest of humanity.

"Need any help?" she asked.

"Oh no, I got it," he said as he placed down the sixth bag.

"Such determination," she thought.

The lead guard pulled a bathrobe and an apron and threw them at the Inquisitor. "In case it gets cold," he replied.

"Strange," she thought. "But interesting."

He put the rest of the bags on the counter and looked in each one. "Seems I have everything." He turned to her. "I'd like to ask you a question."

"If I'm guessing correctly, then yes is my answer."

"Wonderful." He grinned. "Because we're not the only people looking forward to this."

The Inquisitor grew timid. She had been through heaven and hell before, but never through what the guard was suggesting. "I guess there's always a first time," she thought.

* * *

Lord Szazadrekh descended the ramp with Lychguards at his sides. In the hangar thousands of Necron warriors stood at attention, their guns carried at their sides, aimed at the ground. All the vehicles such as Doom Scythes had been moved into lower levels. Even without the vehicles, the hangar glowed with an inescapable emerald.

The Necron Lord looked out past the opening into space, watching for his guest. Even though he knew his destruction wasn't a possibility if he was careful with his words, he still worried about Azultep. It was said that the Ancient Lord, transferred into a body of living metal millennia before the great slumber after losing a bet to the Deciever, had the temper of a child and was twice as irrational. It was also said that many Necron and Xenos alike had been slain for the slightest displeasure they brought him.

Szazadrekh was sure that he would have died from the anxiety he was experiencing right now if he were still organic. No one, not even the Silent King, had been able to keep the mad machine Lord under control.

A long time passed. Soon impatience took the better of Szazadrekh. "Scan for the bastard! I will not wait this long!"

Belakh hopped off his shoulder and scurried back up the ramp, followed by a swarm of scarabs and several Necron warriors.

The ship shook violently.


	18. Episode 18: Peculiar Surprises

**Episode 18**

**Peculiar Surprises**

* * *

The Inquisitor's jaw dropped as the lead guard withdrew a long metal shaft from the black bag. The sight sent tingles up her bits. She began to wonder if this was a good idea at all. The end came out, revealing it was only a segment of a much larger tool. "Here's the rod," the lead guard said as he put it down on the table. He reached deep into the bag. "I suppose you've never seen interchangeable heads on one of these before, have you?"

"Not that I can remember," she said.

"Well, then you're in for quite the surprise," he said. "A rubber head for every imaginable use. This must be very interesting to you. I can tell from your face."

"It is."

"Then you'll find everything else I have to be very interesting, especially the machines."

"Oh!"

"Wait... I'll be right back because I think I may have left one of them behind," he said as he rushed to the door. "Feel free to put on the robe."

"I will." She rose from the couch and picked up the robe and put it on. Why she had to wear a robe and apron was beyond her. Unless water bills were high, a shower would wash away the mess. "Do they like it that messy that I have to wear clothes?" she thought.

The bathrobe was warm and fuzzy. The Inquisitor found herself lost in the fabric, constantly brushing her hand across what she guessed to be down feathers. She'd hate to get this messy, but it was cold. She figured that's what the apron was for, but why protect just the front? It seemed very odd that they liked it messy from the front, and that she had to wear clothing that covered most of the front leaving only a fraction of the collar bone and what skin was above the knee visible. It reminded her of the Amish-ish colony that a ship she was once accompanying once stumbled upon, where sex happened with clothes on. Wool clothes. The kind that made the wearer sweat and sometimes drop from heat exhaustion.

But these colonists seemed too devious to be that modest. After all, a long stainless steel shaft, both clean and coming with plenty of heads. It must be the interchangeable screwdriver of toys - heck, that's what they probably called it, the "Screwdriver".

He also mentioned machines and said she would find them especially interesting.

Then it occurred to her as she crossed from the lounge into the kitchen, why would they do it in the kitchen?

The marble door rumbled aside and the lead guard returned with a dolly loaded with large cardboard boxes. The kitchen seemed to small a place for such a setup, unless she was to get on one of the few island counters around. Then again, maybe they did it in a lounge next to the kitchen so they could grab a snack to make up for the spent energy.

The guards legs twitched as he tried lifting one of the boxes off the dolly. His fingers were pale and his jaw tense.

"Need help?" she asked.

"N-no! I g-got this," he said between gasps for air.

She rushed over and grabbed the other side. The box was incredibly heavy, perhaps heavier than the armor the Adeptus Astartes wore. "Where are we moving this?"

"To that island over there." He replied with a sigh of relief. "You sure you can carry this?"

"I've carried heavier," she said while guiding the box over to the counter.

They rested the box in the center and brushed their hands.

"Whew! Well, why not leave the rest and open those which we'll need right now."

She grinned. "Finally," she thought as there was some anticipation. After all, she did want to see this device with multiple attachments.

Gretznuk and the bug struggled to crawl through the shafts as the ship continued to shake.

* * *

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" squeaked the bug as it bounced around the shaft like a kernel of popcorn. "I bet your obese glutes someone's using a gravitational well as we speak!"

"And that means?"

"They're gonna see the Death Scythe!"

"Death Scythe!"

"The thing we were going to escape in!"

The ship yanked down, slamming the shaft roof against Gretznuk's head. "Ow!"

"Don't kill yourself now!" the bug squeaked.

"Wouldn't they see it in the first place?" said Gretznuk.

"Keep moving! Yes, but it wouldn't be as noticable! Ahhck!" the bug squealed as it was thrown against the ceiling and walls. "Keep moving forward! Take the second right in front of us!"

The pair continued to crawl through the labyrinth of shafts. Gretznuk had no idea where he was going or what was going on for that matter. As he crawled deeper into the network of tunnels and chutes, he began to wonder what happened to the blue alien. Was she okay in all of this? Were the silent, stiff, and apathetic guards protecting her? Or were they bouncing around like him and this bug that kept slapping his bottom whenever he slowed down?

The ork stopped and the bug collided with his bottom and bounced back. "Why did you stop?!"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

The bug zipped between Gretz's legs and under his torso, popping out from behind the ork's folded arms.

"I suppose stealth is now out of the question," said the bug while thousands of mechanical legs rattled around them.

* * *

The Inquisitors sat around a horseshoe meeting table in a private briefing chamber. The Inquisitor had not returned for quite some time after leaving to "brainstorm". They discussed the possible methods of winning the hearts of the colonists, methods that would not require much usage of the already limited supplies aboard the vessel.

"Of course. I prepose we do cosmetic labor such has hair styling and makeup," said the tall one. "During our short stay on the surface I was complemented several times for having long, red hair without split ends and neatly combed back. They can appreciate good hair. I say we take advantage of this."

"That's a terrible idea," said the short one. "How about this, we set up a bar with a bunch of alcohol and busty girls. Meanwhile, we give away condoms and distribute hallucinogenic drugs."

"Of course, that's absolutely heretical," said the tall one.

"Oh, and you're apparently not heretical with your hair styling?"

"It's borderline, of course!"

"As borderline as your hairline," said the short one. "High on the sides but steeping low at the center."

"Insulting my suggestion doesn't make yours any better."

"At least I'm willing to be bold enough to do something that's sure to win hearts."

"And of course, break them."

"I propose something less heretical," said Cut-face.

"Like what?!" said the other two Inquisitors, already at each other's throats.

"A fighting arena-"

"Absolutely heretical!" said the short one. "Something that chaotic belongs in no Inquisitor's mind!"

"There'll be rules, like no weapons or body armor except over the important parts. And all punches and kicks to the limbs and torso, not the head and crotch."

"It still sounds heretical." The short one looked over to the quiet one. "What do you think?"

"All in one," said the quiet one.

A moment of silence washed over the room.

"Of course," said the tall one. "A bar that styles hair while two guys fight in an arena."

"Its definitely heretical," said the short one. "Heretically amazing! Count me in."

"Sounds pretty good," said Cut-face.

"What did I tell all of you? Quiet boy over here is leadership material. He listens and brainstorms solutions everyone can agree with!" said the short one.

The door behind him slammed. "Every time I step in here there's more heresy abound. I am not amused by any of this."

"Jeez, chief. Calm down for a minute," said the short one.

"Calm down? I'm surprised you all haven't turned to chaos with this kind of slacking and apathy! Why don't all of you loyal up and use your heads for once!"

"We were," said Cut-face. "Unless you have a better idea to reach the citizens other than killing all of them."

"That's what I came in here to tell you," he replied. "The plan I have devised is the least heretical and the most appealing. Gentlemen, is there a man amongst you who can say no to baked goods?"

The room filled with a collective sigh.


	19. Episode 19: Play of Fore

**Episode 19**

**Play of Fore**

* * *

Szazadrekh at first feared who it could be. "How did the Eldar get here?" he thought for a fraction of a moment. The last time the scouts checked, the nearest Eldar activity was thousands of systems away in all directions. His fleet was never ambushed, rather they did the ambushing and had destroyed about five Eldar fleets ever since they set out after a stop at an awakening tomb world one point two kilocycles ago.

The Lord then realized who it actually was. Only one mad automaton king could be behind such an abrupt disturbance. The anxiety from just thinking about it sucked all the breath out of his mechanical body. "Belakh! Tell the fleet we are no longer on high alert."

The shaking stopped and a much larger warship, hundreds of thousands of millennia old rose into the hangar's view. It was large enough that the hangar's view of space was blocked by the side of the massive vessel.

The ancient craft, from the cycles before the Necrontyr - the Necron's former selves - and the C'tan - the star gods they gambled with - fought what many called the War in Heaven, was far more vast than any other ship in Szazadrekh's fleet. While ships built after the War in Heaven were more basic and compact in geometry, using basic shapes such as crescents, pyramids, and quadrilaterals, the ancient ships were shaped like vast, curved, and warped tuning forks. The command pyramids - accompanied by several smaller pyramid structures at the base - had six to eight sides at their bases. The hulls were prongs that had uneven bulges where weapon batteries and super weapons lay, along with compartment, storage bays, and thousands of hangars.

"Belakh, give me stats of the fleet. I don't want any collisions."

Chirping echoed through the hangar, followed by a mechanical chorus of squeaks and screeches.

"Belakh, are you sure?"

The skeletal warriors in the hangar broke standing formation and filed out with haste. The truth of the situation was grave. Nevertheless, Szazadrekh doubted his scarabs. He heard about how big the ancient Necrontyr ships were, but what Belakh was telling him was absurd. There was no way the ancient ship was that big, it was next to the hangar.

More squeaking and squealing echoed in the hangar.

No, they were not next to the warship.

Szazadrekh approached the edge of the hangar and looked out to the rest of the fleet. They were not behind the warship, they were between it and the hangar where Szazadrekh stood. There was only one explanation how they could be between the hangar and the hull of a vessel so vast it took up the hangar's entire view.

Belakh popped out of a hatch in the ceiling and landed on the Lord's shoulder. He chirped with concern and projected an image of the fleet and their visitors.

Szazadrekh stared. "Oh my C'tan..."

The entire fleet floated between the prongs of the ancient warship. All six thousand vessels of Szazadrekh's fleet.

Even though there was one massive warship, Szazadrekh knew the mad king's favorite tactic: the capital ship would remain de-cloaked, while the million vessel strong main fleet of the mad king remained phased out, ready to strike at his command - or whenever he was throwing a temper tantrum.

"Azultep... What do you have in mind?"

* * *

"Azultep," said the bug. "That would explain the destabilization. Azultep is here."

"Azultep?" Gretznuk asked.

"One ancient ruler who lost a bet to a C'tan. He has the mind and heart of a child, and the short temper and poor reasoning of one."

"Interesting. Pardon the immediacy but can we find another place to discuss this? Which way do I go?"

"Considering that Azultep has most likely surrounded Lord Szazadrekh's fleet, I don't know. We'd be obliterated if we tried to exit the vessel."

The ork looked down to the metal bug. "You're joking, right?"

"Nope. The ancient Necrontyr warships have impenetrable security. Not even the most cunning of infiltrators can enter without everyone on board knowing. Also there are no canoptek or any other bugs on board as the ships themselves are living machines, hence an almost organic look to the living metal hulls."

"Intriguing..."

"And if I'm correct, I think Azultep's ship was fused with a C'tan after the C'tan lost the second bet. Or was it two C'tan's? Yet I digress, let's head back. There's nowhere we can sneak out and it's hard to brainstorm while thousands of maintenance wraiths, sentinels, and scarabs crawl around our faces."

"I suppose I'm at the front?" said Gretznuk.

"Yes, you are," said the bug, and they both crawled back.

* * *

The chefs watched in amusement as the Inquisitors fastened their aprons. The most feared agents aboard the ship appeared more docile than before, and rather pathetic in the large kitchen.

"Mine's too big," said the short one.

"Too small," said the tall one.

"Too not-masculine," said Cut-face.

"..." said the quiet one with a disappointed face.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm beginning to think this is the most heretical of ideas so far," said the short one.

"Of course," said the tall one. "We should've replaced him."

"Nah, I still prefer cooking over a bullet to the brain," said the short one. "Do any of us actually know how to cook?"

"I can make cereal and toast," said Cut-face. "I'm sure that counts for something."

"Burning and soaking bread? I don't know, sounds like something a novice would do."

"Of course," said the tall one. "We could always ask our chefs."

They looked to the group of apronless chefs standing in the corner. They shrugged. "Mash potatoes, gravy, diced veggies and fruit is all we know," one said.

"Did you just say that you only cook three - but technically four - dishes? Is this why the menu never changes?" asked the short one.

The chefs nodded.

"Are you implying that we've had the same shitty menu three times a day because of unskilled chefs?"

"At least we can make food other than cereal and toast," said a chef.

"Good point."

Cut-face frowned and reached for his gun. "Insulting an Inquisitor? I smell heresy."

"Oh no no no!" The chef broke into a sprint for the nearest exit.

Cut-face raised his Bolter and aimed for the running chef. Fire burst from the barrel and seconds later the chef's brain splattered on the wall. "Clean it up!" said Cut-face, aiming his Bolter at the remaining chefs.

They hurried over and began to wipe away the remains of their fallen fellow.

"And you call me Sir Purge-A-Lot..."

The four Inquisitors turned. Their jaws dropped when they saw what their leader was wearing.

A pink apron with felt flowers sewn on.

"Either Purge-A-Lot has found his inner soft side or we're all in one bad soap opera," said the short one.

"I figured that if we're going to win some hearts, we better dress pleasantly."

"Pardon me, sweetie, but all heresy aside, you look pathetic," said Cut-face.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" asked the lead Inquisitor as he pulled out a large bowl from the cupboard.

"Hold on, Cut-face," said short one. "Is that a tiny pink chef's hat on the lead Inquisitor's cap?"

"Indeed it is, my fellow Inquisitor! It brings soft, pink glory to the Emperor!"

Cut-face set his hands on his hips and shook his head. He sighed, looked back at the lead Inquisitor pulling out a bag of flour. "Want me to grab some measuring cups?"

"I was just about to ask you."

"Alright," said Cut-face. He turned to the remaining chefs and put two rounds in front of their feet. "Where are the measuring cups?"

* * *

Nephalut stood in front of the empty cell. The bladed doors were still open, and the four guards stood next to her. A contemplative smile stretched across her face. "Quite a clever ork we have on our hands."

The guards stared with their empty, apathetic gazes into the empty cell - their failed task. They didn't care.

"Well that's a shame. I was hoping to get to him after the Terran, but I guess that's going to have to wait."

Malat hopped on her shoulder and squeaked in her ear.

"Yes, yes. I know. Don't chase them. There's only so many places they can run now that Azultep is here. Brief Belakh on our current situation, and if need be give him and Basep a few whacks. I don't need Kophy getting into my personal projects again. Especially with Azultep around."

Malat jumped off her shoulder and scurried off. She looked around, checked every cell, and speed walked back to Kophy's lab. "Now to get back to business with Subject Forty Three."

She grinned and pulled her flesh cloak around her naked body, still curvy and busty from the experiment.


	20. Episode 20: Kneading His Dough

**Episode 20**

**Kneading His Dough**

* * *

The batter splashed in the bowl with the deep strokes of the wooden spoon. Water poured in, flour was added. The spoon's fibers snapped and crackled under the stress, and the stainless steel bowl bent and twisted in the holder's firm grasp. More water was added, with flour, eggs, and baking soda. The mixture bubbled and gurgled as it was churned over and over again.

"MIX FASTER!"

"Of course, sir!" said the tall one. He cradled the bowl in his right arm, and exerted his weight on the spoon.

"Do you masturbate with that hand? No wonder all of you complain, your left hands are as good as penny hookers!"

"Of course, sir, masturbation and prostitution are heresy!"

"As well as your mixing! You couldn't even finger if you wanted to."

The tall one worked harder with the wooden spoon, fibers snapped and popped under the weight and pressure. He grunted and hissed. The dough had grown dense and there was plenty of it in his bowl, plenty too much.

Metal pinged across the room.

"Shit!" said the short one. "My spoon broke!" He raised a snapped end.

"Did you just break a fucking spoon?!"

"It's not like we can't weld it back together."

"Oh, and how long is that going to take? Hm? Too fucking long!" He walked over and took the bowl from short one. "Let me see that..." He dipped his hand in, pulled out a clump, and threw it at a chef's face. "You call that dough?!" He growled, finger at the chef. "It's softer than his fucking micro-dick, you little shit!" He slammed the bowl on a tabletop and flipped the table, spilling everything onto the floor. "Make it again!"

The lead Inquisitor turned to Cut-face and the quiet one who kept their eyes on their dough. He approached and looked into their bowls with a grimace. He ripped the bowls from their hands and thrusted them into the air. "This is dough!" He slammed the bowls upside down on a wooden cutting countertop, pulled them up, and hurled them aside, beheading a chef. Two clumps of finely stirred dough sat there. "Now soften it!"

Cut-face and the quiet one sighed.

They approached the counter and set their bare, floured hands into the dough and began to knead while the Inquisitor went back to the tall one.

The tall one whipped the spoon around the bowl over and over. The lead Inquisitor looked over his shoulder, and then ripped the bowl from his hands. He shoved his hand into the dough, pulled out a thick ball, mashed it against his face, and took a bite from the gooey the light brown blob.

He chewed the dough, threw the rest back into the bowl, and continued to mix.

"Absolutely disgusting! Purely heretical!" he said, his words slurred by the sloshing raw dough in his mouth. Specks from his mouth flew across the room, some absorbed in the bowl's doughy maelstrom whipped by the Inquisitor.

Raw dough splattered all over the felt flowers on the lead Inquisitor's apron. He continued stirring vigorously, the wooden spoon's fibers crackling and the steel bowl ringing like a gong as the spoon pounded away.

The dough thickened with every turn of the spoon and more fibers splintered. The lead Inquisitor's hands turned white as beads of sweat rolled off the back. His face glowed red, and he breathed with intensity. "This is how you fucking mix!" The dough still in his mouth dripped off his lips with foam, some of it mixing in with the dough in the bowl.

The tall one wanted to suggest that the lead Inquisitor to use his hands to mix it as the spoon head was about to snap. With every stir the Inquisitor put more pressure on the spoon. The dough rolled around once more, the wooden spoon's fibers cracked, and the head snapped off.

The lead Inquisitor plucked and chucked the head at the chefs. He shoved the bowl back into the tall one's arms. "KNEAD IT!" he said. He turned to Cut-face and the quiet one's direction.

The two worked the dough, watching the consistency. The lead Inquisitor looked over their shoulders. They shuddered as his doughy breath billowed over the countertop and his chewing filled their ears. They could feel his bloodshot, judgmental gaze roast their fingers.

The short one leaned to the tall one and said, "He'll cook the dough right in their hands."

"Of course, then we won't have to worry about using the ovens."

The short one's eyes widened. "Thanks for reminding me."

The lead Inquisitor shoved Cut-face and the quiet one aside. He mashed the two separate pieces together, rolled the large clump, and pounded the large dough ball into the counter, which shook and creaked under every strike. "FOR! THE! EMPEROR!" He picked up the softened dough and slung it around his head several times, before raising it higher and then slamming it back down onto the counter, where his fist thundered into the mushiness.

All watched in silence.

The lead Inquisitor picked up the dough and swung it against a cabinet, breaking a door off the hinges, and slammed it back down again. "SHIT!" He beat it a few times, picked up the dough, and smashed it against the refrigerator, putting a dent into the reinforced stainless steel and causing sparks to fly out the back. "FUCK!" He ripped the dough out of the dent and slammed it back down on the counter. "FUCK!" His fingers worked furiously to lengthen it. He shoved his hand into a nearby bowl of water and sprinkled the mix with a moisturizing spray. He stopped.

"THIS DOUGH'S DRIER THAN YOUR MOTHER'S VAGINA!"

He soaked his fist for a brief moment and then started pummeling the dough.

He punched the dough, tossing and turning it every so often. The lead Inquisitor stretched it into a log, grabbed one end, and began bashing it against the counter that was already breaking.

"YOU! MUST! TEND! ER! IZE!"

He stopped, raised the log, and swung it. The log struck the cabinets with a crackling blow, splinters spraying everywhere as the wood crunched. "YOU! MUST! HAVE! TECH! NIQUE!" He struck again and again until the cabinets were hanging by nail and fiber.

He turned to one of the refrigerators and clubbed it with much violence. "REAL! MEN! USE! THEIR! HANDS!" His swings with the log of dough tore the machine off its bolts on the wall and floor.

"HO! LY! SHIT!" said the short one.

The Inquisitor beat the machine with the log until it submitted into a crumpled mess. He hurled the log at the machine. The dough struck the machine and knocked it back into the wall with a loud bang, and rolled into the basin of a massive dent he made in the crunched refrigerator.

Silence filled the room except where the Inquisitor stood, his breath loud and raspy. His frame rose and fell. His lungs clattered for air.

"Who put this guy in charge of cooking?" said a chef who had just walked in. He walked over to his friends and shook their hands. "That's not how you knead dough."

"WHAT?!" screamed the lead Inquisitor. He glared at the surviving chefs huddled in the corner, his eyes bulging with fury, an eyelid spasming. "DID I HEAR THE WHISPERS OF HERESY?!"

"OHFUCK! No no no!" replied the chef.

"Lying to an Inquisitor? I'll let you guess the rest," he said, ripping the dough off the crumpled, sparking mess that was a refrigerator, its contents spewing on the floor in a puddle of colors.

"That's a... p-paddling?" the chef whimpered. His fellow chefs stepped away from him as the Inquisitor's furious fingers molded the dough back into a log. The intense brows of the Inquisitor cast dark shadows over his eyes, which glowed red with anger in the dark shadows. His black hair hung from his scalp over his forehead, dripping with sweat.

"Oh Emperor... have mercy..."

"HIS DIVINE SALVATION CAN'T SAVE YOU NOW!" The Inquisitor screamed, his voice cracking, and hurled the log in the chef's direction.

The four other Inquisitors watched, jaws dropped, as the log tumbled lengthways in the air toward the screaming chef.

Tears shot from the chef's eyes as the log came closer. Saliva spit from the lead Inquisitor's mouth. Both screamed. The chef's friends turned away and ducked.

The log plowed into the chef's head, smashing his skull into the wall. A loud crack shattered eardrums as the back of the Inquisitor's head crunched under the immense force.

Red splattered all over the wall, as did some clumps of pink that matched the lead Inquisitor's flowery apron. The chef's body slumped down and hit the floor with a thud, leaving a bloody smear against the wall. The dough log popped off and fell intno the chef's lap, revealing a crushed face mashed against the wall. The entire wall was covered with the chef's skull. The dough log, however, was clean.

The lead Inquisitor walked over, picked up the log, walked back, and slammed it back on the counter.

A long silence followed.

"Why did we ever put him in charge of anything?" the short one whispered. Everyone but the lead Inquisitor stared at him. His fellow Inquisitors put distance between them and him.

The Inquisitor turned around, his wet hair hanging in front of his face, his eyes glowing behind the curtain of exhaustion and fury.

"Because I'm the only one aboard who knows how to FUCKING DO ANYTHING!" He said and punched a hole in the dough log.


	21. Episode 21: Coming Bursts

_NOTICE AS OF PUBLICATION: My apologies for not releasing on the usual daily routine this week. I've been having issues schedule-wise in regards to finishing the draft and editing._

* * *

**Episode 21**

**Coming Bursts**

* * *

Gretznuk crawled with his goosebumps. The bug behind him was no longer the calm, collected voice that spoke in his head, but rather an irritated machine that became borderline homicidal a few times already. Several times they had stopped, turned around and crawled in the other direction.

"They know we're in here," said Gretznuk.

"That's what I just told you," said the bug.

"Well I wasn't sure-"

"Until you saw Mr. Skull peeking in through the hatch."

"Yea... Anyway, which way now? Right or left?"

"Leeeeffff- Right. Head right. I mean left."

"Right, then left? Or left then right then left."

"Just right."

They continued crawling in the ribbed shaft, ribs that helped the two get a secure grip. Gretznuk took a right at the junction and crawled toward the elbow where the shaft went vertical. He rolled on his back as the bug had instructed him, tightened his grasp on the ribs, got secure footing, and began climbing. The bug's face and "shoulders" mashed the ork's bottom, giving his companion some bottom support.

As he climbed further up, Gretznuk let his senses pick up on his surroundings. Distorted echoes rumbled through the shaft. Separating the ribs into segments were green glowing orbs. The shaft, as did the rest of the ship, smelled of a morbid cleanliness.

Every now and then the two would hear the rumble of the centipede-like Stalker (Sentinels being their specialized bretheren) crawling through a nearby shaft. Yet even with the possibility of being caught, the bug insisted the two of them keep moving. "After all, in a basic context, its generally harder to catch a moving target than a stationary."

The shaft continued going up. Forever came and when as it always did on the timeless vessel. It had been a while since the vibrations knocked Gretz and the bug around, and the continuous, uninterrupted climb had the same effect as the cell, and all the young ork could do was climb. A part of him wished he was back in the cell where he could take a nap.

A sharp pain shot through his ass, followed by another, and another. He assessed six in total.

"What are you doing down there!?"

"I heard you yawn," said the bug. "And my shiny metal ass gives no free rides! Climb carefully now, I'm about to inject some stimulants into you."

"Stimulants?"

"Chemicals like caffeine. Boosts your cardiovascular rate to keep you, I think. Or was it the other stimulant that did that? Hm. Any case, even if this doesn't work, stay awake, for our sake."

His ass burned with pain as the fluids entered, and still burned after the bug had retracted what he stuck in the orks buttocks. Gretznuk sighed and continued climbing upward, their vertical path having no end in sight.

* * *

The Sehker lowered itself to the floor and angled its head. The tip bubbled, followed by a blast of a hot white fluid that pushed away the bodily fluids surrounding the slab where the Terran was fastened into drains.

"Should I, should I not?" The temptation to reenact live the impalement of the subject was strong enough that Kophtet lowered one of his Sehkers below the Terran's anus.

"Well, for sure Nephalut will take her time."

He thought of his specimen gathering method and the orgasmic sensation a metal tentacle up an anus and out the mouth brought. "Once Azultep leaves, I'll tell Szazadrekh that I'll go solo for personal reconnaissance. I don't want any interference spoiling the fun." He moaned as he fantasized about impaling several hundred thousand organics. He didn't know how many lived on the planet before Lord Szazadrekh's fleet arrived, but he had an idea of how many would be left after the fleet left.

He looked to the Terran, who stared at him in horror.

Kophtet raised a Sehker and aimed it at the Terran's face. "You like this, don't you?"

The subject pulled at his bindings and screamed.

Kophtet giggled. "No one's going to hear you scream, no one who gives a damn."

The Terran kept screaming.

"Oh, that's right. You can't understand a word of what I am saying."

Tears rolled down the Terran's cheeks.

"You can boo hoo all you like. Just be happy your her pitiful toy, and not mine."

The Terran heard some pity in the monster's voice. "I forgive you... J-just help me..."

The Terran's words confused the Cryptek. "I would, but no, I would not. She would only continue to take my specimens to get even. To you I say no."

The xeno spoke in a raspy chatter that stung the Terran's ears. He guessed that by the /s/ sound like that of a "yessss" that the monster who had killed his companions would be willing to help him and show sympathy.

"Y-you'll help me?"

"No."

"Really?" the Terran replied in a hopeful sigh.

"Are you deaf? I just said no."

The Terran gazed into the Cryptek's multitude of eyes with a confused look.

"What part of no do you not understand?"

The Terran's face flushed red in anger. "Don't just stand there then, free me!"

"No!"

"Take me out of these bindings!"

"What part of this entire situation do you not understand?!"

"Stop your yapping and free me!"

"What part of my grotesque body makes you think I dispense freedom and bliss like their some ENDLESS RESOURCE?! Technically I can, but you're a test subject. Yes, you are a person, but I could give less of a C'tan's damnation if you want to leave. There would be no point. Most of your vitals are already fucked, so you'd die the minute you tried leaving that slab."

"Kophy, are you really arguing with a subject you know for a fact can't understand a word your saying?" the audio glyph echoed. "Or are you arguing with yourself again? I can get Basep to come over and comfort you right now."

"Shit," the Terran said. "She's already here."

"Well, I'm done cleaning," Kophtet said. He shoved the head of his Sehker down the subject's throat and pumped the Terran's stomach full of the blue oil. When the Sehker pulled out, the Terran collapsed unconscious.

Kophtet looked toward the observation room. "I was hoping to get some work done after a quick polish, but I suppose that isn't in our options currently." He passed through the reflector curtain and climbed up the ramp leading to the observation room.

Nephalut opened the door and Malat leaped through her legs down the ramp as she passed by him. "It's recording already. Khelat is willing to take over if you don't feel like watching."

"Khelat can do it then, because I'm no longer in the mood for testing. I suppose I can catch up on Szazadrekh. I want to see what he and that old king are up to." Kophtet passed through the observation room where a scarab glowing red sat in front of the glyphs, ready for the next command.

Kophtet approached the lab doors, the blades seperated, and he left the room.

* * *

The Inquisitors hovered around the oven door as the lead pulled the wooden palette out of the oven and set it down on the counter. The cake on the palette steamed, filling the kitchen with a sweet scent.

Cut-face raised the knife and aimed to slice.

"Inquisitor."

He turned to the lead. "Yes?"

"I am the one who cuts."

Cut-face rolled his eyes and gave the knife to the lead Inquisitor.

The lead Inquisitor set the knife into the soft cake, cutting six slices. One large half, and five parts of the other half. He grabbed the larger half, broke off a chunk, and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, stopped, and spat at the chef's.

"It's too damn sweet! So damn sweet it's borderline heretical!"

The other Inquisitors didn't touch their slices.

"We kissed your ass and kneaded our dough as you commanded," said the short one. "So don't you start blaming us for your problem-"

"You forgot to add salt!"

"Of course, you said to use sugar in the place of salt," said the tall one.

"Heresy!"

"Tall boy over here remembers right," said Cut-face. "It's hard to be mistaken about being forced to modify a recipe at gun point."

"Why didn't you do anything then?! Resources were wasted!"

"Gunpoint," said the quiet one.

"Exactly," said the short one. "See? Quiet boy over here has the idea. I'm thinking he should be in charge-"

"There's salt somewhere on board. There has to be"

"I-I'm afraid n-not, s-sir," said a chef. His companions inched away from him.

BLAM!

The chef's headless body sunk to the floor and smoke seeped from the tip of the lead Inquisitor's barrel. The other chefs grabbed cleaning materials and started to wipe up their companions remains.

The lead Inquisitor watched them. He reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a cylinder marked, 'FRAG', and pulled the pin. "Hey, I found a spray can of cleaner. It should clean the stain out real well. Catch!" he said and tossed the cylinder to the chefs.

One the chefs grabbed it.

The Inquisitors turned away and fell to the ground behind the lead Inquisitor, who threw his hat aside and let the rest of his wet hair fall around his face.

The chef looked closely at the device. "Wait a minute, this isn't a-"

A fireball consumed the remaining chefs. Pots and pans clanged around the room and the lead Inquisitor's hair blew aside revealing his cold, brown eyes in the thick shadows under his brow. Roasted comets of flesh whizzed by the orgasmic grin stretching across the Inquisitor's face.

Limbs, flesh, and organ flew left and right, painting the kitchen red. The combustive radiance peeled off the thick cloud of grey billowing across the room.

The four other Inquisitors rose in the dark cloud of smoke. They turned to the silhouette lead, facing away from them.

Cut-face reached over to a stove and flicked the switch, activating the smoke ventilation. The grey veil pulled away, and the lead Inquisitor turned to them. His head hung low and he looked under the ridge of his brow to his companions. "So who's ready to find me some salt!" he shouted, raising his hands in the air, optimism written across his face, covered partially by his drooping hair.

He rose upright. Meanwhile the four looked to each other.

"Well, who's it gonna be?!"

"All of us," said the short one. "You made yourself pretty clear." He elbowed and grunted at his companions.

"Good. As we all know, obedience is the key to happiness!"

The four knew he was bullshitting.


	22. Episode 22: Threading the Column

**Episode 22**

**Threading the Column**

* * *

The Inquisitor placed her hands on his shoulders. Her chin rested on the angle of his neck and shoulder, her head nudging against his. She purred and pecked him on the cheek.

He chuckled as he reached into the bag. "Let's see here... Spoon heads, a few bowls, and some cups."

"I don't remember those being involved."

"I thought you said you had experience." His head turned to her.

"I do, but..."

"Your friends were very conservative and stiff."

"Yes."

The lead guard turned and put his hands on her shoulders. "Then it is my duty show you things that they could never show you!" He chuckled and kissed her cheek.

Chills raced down her spine. The long ride with the other five was miserable and this was a welcome vacation, that was for sure. What she wasn't sure about was if she could handle what he had in store. Already the practices on this colony seemed strange. What devious tastes did he have in mind?

"Take this festive bowl for example!" He set down a multi-color bowl with ridges that spiraled into the bottom. "You turn it while stirring or mixing and the batter gets the double treatment, or so they say."

"So they say?" Spiral bottomed bowls and lounge activities did not mix well in her head.

"Next," he began, pulling out a wooden spoon with a threaded end. "Could you grab that wooden handle in the other bag for me?"

"Alright."

The lead guard took the handle and pushed it down over the spoon. "See this? Push down on that handle." He handed her the assembled spoon.

She pushed down on it and the spoon spun around. She pulled the handle up and it continued spinning.

"Keep pushing and it'll keep spinning."

The toy was certainly intriguing, but the Inquisitor had a hard time picturing how she could use it. The only way it could be used seemed rather painful, then again she hadn't tried it. "There's a first time for everything," she reminded herself.

The lead guard reached into the bag again.

"So how about those head attachments for the rod?"

"The rod? Oh, you want to see those?"

"Mhm."

The lead guard reached into another bag next to the rod. "Where are they- ah, yes! These will really toss your salad."

"Oh," she replied. She could feel hers tingle a bit.

"A head for every kind of salad, and every kind of toss!"

"Oooh."

"All shapes and sizes."

"Oooooh."

"I also have a second one, helps when your doing some real exotic stuff."

"Sir, are you trying to spoil me?"

"Oh no," said the lead guard, stepping back with a cheeky grin. "I'm just showing you the stuff we use around here."

"Oh my!"

"But we do wash the heads after using them."

"That's good, but how thorough?"

"Very thorough. Wouldn't want to catch a disease from one of these. That would be a damn shame."

"It would," she said as he pulled his arm from the bag.

"But wait." He stopped. "Maybe I should save it until later when I can show you how to use it. After all, the dough needs to rise, and I'm planning on multi-tasking with you."

Her jaw dropped. "With the two rod things?"

"With the two rod things. Or four, because I have a pair of electric ones."

The Inquisitor could feel her legs weakening. Her knees rattled as the came close to failing her. Her head was light as a feather, and she could feel the ants crawling under her skin while her heart fluttered. "Oh my!"

"Like I said, I have plenty of things to show you."

She stumbled back and collapsed into his arms.

* * *

Accompanied by twelve Lychguard at both sides, Szazadrekh's feet clicked against the cold, clean floors of the ancient halls aboard Azultep's ship. A pair of ancient automatons guided the guests through the maze. Unlike the corridors in his own ship which were strictly quadrilateral, wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, the halls aboard Azultep's were round and arched, and their ceilings were lofty enough that a daring pilot could fly a small craft through. In the corners of the arches spread evenly along was a flaming glow that illuminated the dim interior of the ship. It reminded the Lord of a few other dynasties that used a warm color scheme, but this was older and flickered like a row of fiery tongues.

Their guides were from an age before the great slumber as well. The beasts had four legs, manes of fire, snouts of burning embers, tongues also of fire, bodies of a living metal as polished and angles as sharp as obsidian, and wings and tails of molten living metal. Their claws dug into the floor, leaving gashes in their wake.

The ancient beasts of Necrontyr legend, the Sphyx, intimidated Szazadrekh. They were Crypt Sphyx in particular, the smallest of the Sphyx. Even as the smallest, they stood an arm's length taller than Szazadrekh and his Lychguard.

They came to two pedestals standing at a dead end. The Crypt Sphyx climbed and sat upon the pedestals, their gaze focused over the heads of Szazadrekh and his guard. The wall behind them pulled back like curtains, and then twisted into a pair of threaded columns. The guests passed between the Sphyx and the threaded columns into the royal chambers of Azultep. Behind them the columns closed back into the walls they were.

The morbid style of the ancient Necrontyr lavishly decorated the throne room.

Around the throne was a curtain of black and blonde hair woven into scenes of violence and lust outlined in gold. Woven into the patters were the scales of several robes of Necrontyr Lords of legend who defied the automaton king and suffered dearly.

Scyrens, the forerunners to the Lychguard and Immortals, parted the curtains and rested the bundled hair over their metal breasts.

Upon a high pentagonal dais with steps on every side rested a couch of dried flesh, spines, and ribs. Skulls and dried tails to decorated the rims and armrests. The pillows were of dried skin stuffed with fat and ground flesh, the skin gray to match the rest of the morbid throne. Stretched faces were sewn into some of the pillows, forever expressing amusement, grief, and anger.

A large figure reclined on the cushions of dried skin. Four Scyrens surrounding the throne brushed the king's living metal body with oils of an intoxicating scent. Smoke billowed up from under the throne.

"Peasant Szazadrekh." The figure's voice rolled like thunder. "Paying me a visit? How thoughtful. Compliments aside, where's your capital ship?"

* * *

The four returned to the lead Inquisitor. Although he was equal to them skill-wise, he was far superior in his rage which could reach genocidal levels. Yet even in the face of possible death, they were willing to not only continue working with Purge-A-Lot, but also tell him news he would not be in the mood to hear. After all, failure to cooperate on behalf of the Emperor would be heresy, and it was obvious how their companion felt about heresy. Facing death on either side of the fork in the road was something they were all too familiar with, especially with him in charge.

"There's no salt aboard," said the short one. "Not a single speck."

"Of course, as we said," said the tall one.

The lead Inquisitor frowned. "Bullshit."

"If you want to check for yourself, go ahead," said Cut-face.

The lead Inquisitor walked to the nearest counter and rested on it, leaning on his palms, muttering something under his breath.

"Looks like we're not baking any time soon," the short one boasted. "Not unless you want to make cake so sweet that it destroys a person's insulin levels after the first slice."

The Inquisitor stood still, hunched over the counter.

"Maybe we should try something other than cooking," said Cut-face. "Something that doesn't involve killing every chef on board and leaving the crew to eat five year old rations."

The quiet one nodded in agreement.

"Of course, you too killed a chef. What we could try is making salt," said the tall one.

The short one glared at his red-headed companion. "But that's just silly!" He would strike him, but only when the lead Inquisitor wasn't watching.

"Short one has a point," said Cut-face. The both of them cleared their throats at the tall one.

"Salt isn't easy," said the quiet one.

"EXACTLY!" said Cut-face and the short one.

"This is why I volunteer quiet one-" Cut-face stopped as the lead Inquisitor turned his head and locked his furious gaze on Cut-face. "As vice lead Inquisitor!"

"There are too few for there to be a vice," said the lead Inquisitor. "And by the Emperor's will, if we must make salt, we will make salt."

The four Inquisitor's sighed. The three swore they would strike the tall one for the good of all the instant the lead Inquisitor left their presence.


	23. Episode 23: Gut Whisperers

**Episode 23**

**Gut Whisperers**

* * *

"There's five of them," replied Gretznuk.

"Just pick one! They're all above the same corridor."

Gretznuk looked down through the pearly, curved windows and saw the skeletal warriors pass beneath him in pairs.

"There's warriors down there."

"So? The only thing that's going to be on their apathetic mind is Azultep and whatever orders are being relayed to them. They won't be able to notice the ork in the room, nevertheless his mechanical companion."

"Even if I plop down on their heads?"

"Even if- you know what? I'll go first, but you have to come down yourself when I give the order."

"Go ahead."

The little bug crawled under the young ork onto hatch in front of them. "Let's see if I remember correctly..." A tail folded out of his back and reached over in front of him. "Alrighty, if I push this..." His tail inserted into a small hole on the hatch. "Right into the finger hole, the door mechanism should release."

The hatch clicked.

"And a one, and a two, and a three, and a-"

Standing on the hatch he was opening was not the best of ideas, the bug found out immediately. Gretznuk watched as the hatch swung out from underneath his companion's feet.

In a state of panic, the bug's nervous system responded to the overload from the sudden fall causing everything to slow down.

In his rotating glide, the bug noticed his collision course with the head of a Necron Immortal. He swung his legs, but it didn't alter his course fast enough. Even if he landed while in this state of advanced shock where everything moved slowly, he'd still get hurt from the force. Time didn't slow down, his senses sped up.

At last resort, he revved up the small engine inside of him. It puttered, sputtered, and struggled meaning he needed to direct more energy to it. A lack of use left it difficult to start up.

He retracted his tail and his legs and cut the power from his limbs. He cut off his sound sensors, as well as much of the light sensors that allowed him to see an endless spectrum, leaving him with a black and white input from his surroundings. He cut processing activity down by three quarters and cut off his vocal output. With most of his extensions shut down, he tried starting the engine again. It squeaked and squealed in strain, but failed to start. Although his descent was hardly noticeable, the ground was coming closer.

He shut off the sensors that helped him smell, touch, see, and anything else that gave him information about the world around him. He immersed what remained of his aware consciousness into an abyss of darkness where small glowing orbs were held together in a web of power. He directed his energy to one of the largest of orbs, the others shrinking as he drew more from them, and then channeled it to the power orb of his engine. Yet his engine still squealed and sputtered. He needed more power, enough to kick the engine to life.

He withdrew power from every orb into one of several reserve orbs to overload it. The orb jerked at the energy tether streams, trying to break loose and cut some of them off, but the bug fought to keep the orb in place as he crammed almost all of his energy into it besides the small amount required for basic cognitive processing and memory access. The orbs lost stability under the pressure and knocked small, empty energy orbs. Then the bug focused on the orb controlling the engines, crammed whatever bit of energy he could into the unstable reserve, widened the tether streams to the engine's orb, and unleashed the power.

The engine overloaded as soon as the energy reached it. Its orb continued to fill, giving the old mechanism a hard kick to its function.

He felt something was about to hit him. The Immortal looked up at the bug falling toward his face and took a step back, bumping into another Immortal. Fellow Immortals around them stopped and focused on the bug as well.

They watched a small glow ball fizzle under the bug while another glow formed behind the bug, followed by the squeal of tiny engines springing to life after a couple of millennia. Its descent slowed. Soon flames burst out from the orbs in brief intervals, slowing the bugs fall further.

Gretznuk's gut told him he ought to back up into the maintenance shaft

The glows faded, and the bug continued to fall. Then they returned, brighter and louder.

A plume of green fire spat from behind the bug and filled the hallway. The thrust shot the small bug at the Immortal's face. The force of the quantum powered bug slamming into his face sent the Immortal's head flying. The flying fireball of a bug roared down the hallway, leaving behind a scorched trail.

Gretznuk looked down at the scorched floor. The burn scars soon after began to heal and it wouldn't be long until maintenance stalkers scrubbed away the soot on the walls and floor.

The corridor seemed vacant. "Hey partner, you there?"

No response.

The young ork shrugged, and dropped himself from the open hatch. He landed on all fours, his head nearly hitting the floor. Some relief came to mind while he faced the floor. But when he looked up, he saw the Immortal re-attach his head and heard the buzzing of gauss weapons all around him.

Gretznuk raised his arms over his head. "It's not like there's an ork standing in front of you."

* * *

The Terran winced in pleasurable pain as the blue alien wrapped her hand around his member. This was the twentieth time she had done this, and yet his blood still pumped downwards making his head feel like it was spinning upwards. His skin except for that on which she was now stroking he could feel buzz.

The fluids her machine friend squirted into his spine hushed his growling stomach and moistened his dry throat.

"Oh Emperor..." he groaned. Whether or not he was being given the proper nutrients or simply having his senses of hunger and thirst numbed, he couldn't tell. He wouldn't mind dying at this point.

Nephalut grew impatient with the lackluster results. "Test note," she said. "Simple play does not break down mental walls. More advanced techniques required."

Malat hopped off the Terran's head and pressed a button on the slab. Nephalut climbed the steps protruding from the sides of the slab and slowly lowered herself onto the Terran. The subject began gasping for air as blood vessels burst in his eyes.

"That's more like it," she said and licked his cheek.

Malat jumped back on the subjects head and chirped.

"Maybe I should," said Nephalut. "Send me the details from his memory."

Malat began tweeting, but stopped.

Squeaks and squeals came over the audio glyph.

"What is it Khelat?"

The audio glyph chirped with excitement.

Nephalut sighed, wondering when she would ever get to work on her projects in peace. At first it sounded like an update on things aboard Azultep's ship, but as it went on she learned it was something completely different. The news brought some joy. "Malat, set the body into a hormonal stasis and follow me," she said, climbing off the Terran. "They've found our little green friend and his accomplice." Even though she couldn't finish her project now, another was coming back into her welcoming grasp as she predicted. Things seemed to be looking better now that Azultep was here. Perhaps an old, insane automaton king wasn't entirely bad after all.

* * *

The four Inquisitors returned with two containers. Unease and concern covered their faces, as well as sweat and oil. In the kitchen the lead Inquisitor stood in front of several crewmen setting up a refrigerator, testing a stove, and painting recycled metal cabinets. The Inquisitor raised his head, and the crewmen to collected their tools and hustled out the back door.

He put on his hat with the small pink chef cap stuck on top and turned around. His pink apron decorated with felt flowers was stained with blood and pieces of dead chef. His hair was still wet with sweat, as well as his face. Dried blood marked the corners of his mouth and popped blood vessels left his eyes pink with streaks of red. He smiled as he looked at the four of them. "I love the new appliances, don't you?" he said, right eye twitching. He locked gazes with the short one. "You said we can make salt, so why don't you guide us? I think it will be a great idea." His voice was calm, yet the words rattled as they left his mouth, sometimes squeaking.

"Well, Captain Crazy-face, you know more of the subject," said the short one. "We were both trusted Acolytes of that hard old Inquisitor, and last time I checked I was the one snoozing every time he started talking about chemical compositions."

The lead Inquisitor grinned. "Hence why I'm the best candidate for lead Inquisitor- Wait, I am the lead Inquisitor! What do you know! Now, do the rest of you understand how we're going to make salt?"

"Of course, I do," said the tall one.

"Does it look like it matters to me?" said Cut-face. "I could care less- I mean, so l long as we make salt to cook." His hand gripped the handle of his Bolter as his quick draw was the only salvation if things went south, which they almost did. His near careless statement made the lead Inquisitor's brow furl.

"No," said the quiet one.

"Then allow me to demonstrate with a simple chemistry experiment," said the lead Inquisitor. "Bring the containers over here."

The four other Inquisitors had a bad feeling about this.


	24. Episode 24: Dirty Favors

**Episode 24**

**Dirty Favors**

* * *

The lead Inquisitor slammed the two containers on the counter top, cracking it. "The sodium and chlorine gas... Where did you find it?"

"It's better the details remain anonymous," said the short one. "All you need to know is that we don't have much of either, so unless we head back down to the planet with something else to trade its highly unlikely we'll be able to bake a profitable amount of goods up here."

"Question," said Cut-face. "Why are we baking up here? How we are going to get the food to down there? Are we going to bomb them with cakes?"

"Of course, that would be counter productive," said the tall one.

"How else are we going to deliver the cakes without paying heretical parking taxes?" said the lead Inquisitor. "You saw how they don't care about our service to the Emperor, they don't even know who he is?! So unless you come up with a better idea soon, these cakes will be dropping on their heads."

"Captain's orders," said the quiet one.

The short one stepped in front of the lead Inquisitor and leaned on the counter. "Quiet boy has a point. The Lord Captain barred us from using resources that we didn't bring onboard the ship."

"We've already killed the chefs and wasted ingredients, I don't see why we should be concerned. Even if he threw us off, he'd still be in deep trouble with the higher authorities."

The short one bit his lip. "Good point... Well, in that case why don't we use bombs to deliver cake?"

The tall one and Cut-face reached for their Bolters, their colleague had said enough.

"Exactly," said the lead Inquisitor. "Maybe I might make you vice, shorty. You've got some valuable listening skills."

The other three sighed while shame washed over the short one when he realized what he just said. Worries about the female Inquisitor distracted him. It was going to be one of those days, and he knew he was going to eat his boot once dinner came along.

"Anyway, let's proceed with the salt making." The lead Inquisitor put a few glass containers, rubber tubes, and a couple of spoons on the counter. "Alright, if you fellows could go for a run and get me an air pump to put this chlorine gas into this glass container, we might actually start the process."

The four Inquisitors cursed under their breath.

A crewman burst through the back doors and ran for the fridge. He searched the counter, the cupboards above, and behind the fridge. "My 'pologies, my 'pologies for interuptin'!"

He stopped at the click of the Bolter behind his head. "My dear sir, would you be interested in fulfilling your duty to serve the Emperor to the most honorable extent?" the lead Inquisitor asked.

Beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. Everyone in the room knew it was a closed question, having only one right answer. To say no was heresy, and the crewman valued his head as well as his life.

The crewman gulped. "Why not- I mean yes. Of course I am interested."

"Very good." The lead Inquisitor lowered his gun and gestured toward the yellow metal box and the glass container with rubber tubes connected to each. "What you can do is to suck the laughing gas from the yellow container through that tube and blow it into the glass container through this tube. I want you to keep doing that until the container is full of the gas. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And try not to breathe it in. People have choked to death."

The four other Inquisitors tried to suppress the urge to cringe.

The lead Inquisitor tightened his gloves and checked them for moisture. Then he peeled the glass container's lid back a few inches and dropped in a few chunks of sodium. He resealed and secured the lid and tightened the rubber tubes. Tipping his hat, he smiled at the crewman. "You may begin at your discretion."

The crewman kneeled down and wrapped his lips around the rubber tube. He sucked in a mouthful of the sour gas, grabbed the other tube, shoved it in his mouth, and blew. He turned back to the other tube, sucked in a mouthful, and blew into the other tube again.

The Inquisitors watched with a guilty awkwardness dancing in the back of their throat. Some of them. Cut-face's mouth split wide open in an amused grin.

The glass container slowly filled with the yellow gas. With each puff, the crewman worked slower and slower.

Clutching the edge of the counter in one hand, the rubber tube in the other, he sucked all the gas he could and blew it into the other tube. His clothes were stained in sweat and blood, and his thighs convulsed violently.

The lead Inquisitor clapped. "Great work! Now I want you get a cup of water and pour it into the glass container."

The crewman did as he was asked. He leaned against the counter, exhausted, and poured a cup of water into the container. The sodium combusted and a thick plume of vaporized salt consumed his head. The hacking, gurgling, and spitting of a man dying of breathing in chlorine gas and vaporized salt filled the room, and the crewman's body collapsed into the flames. The skin sizzled and screams of pain were muffled by burning flesh.

The salt settled, forming a thick layer of crystals on the muscle and skin that melted off the skull of the crewman.

"Bring me more sodium and chlorine," said the lead Inquisitor. "And salvage as much salt as you can from the container and his face."

* * *

Lord Szazadrekh followed Azultep along the Nyle river flowing through the main quarters. A division of Scyrens escorted them.

"Do you know why I called you, Szaza?"

"No, but I have a hunch it has to do with boredom."

Azultep stopped. "You smart cookie." And then continued walking. "In several cycles it will be my birthday, and I want cake." His jaw opened and a black tongue of living metal moistened the rim of his cold grey mouth. "And unfortunately for you, you won't have any because you don't have an actual mouth."

"And you expect me to materialize cake out of thin air?"

"I don't see why not."

"Listen Azul, I am not Trazyn the Infinite. I can't just phase in a slice of cake for you at my every whim. If you want cake, ask him. I'm sure he has a library of all kinds of cake."

"I did."

"And?"

"He called me fat." Azultep traced his hand across the loose armor on his large skeletal frame. Although he looked imposing, there was no excessive bulk on the living machine's body.

"And you threw a tantrum, didn't you?"

Azul looked away.

"And he teleported you back onto your ship and set up a teleporting barrier?"

Azul did not respond.

"And then he said, 'What an Asshole!' Didn't he?"

"He's the asshole!"

"Mhm," said Szazadrekh. "Now if you will pardon me, I need some time to think."

Azultep stopped, turned around, and stomped on Szazadrekh's feet. "Not until you promise to get me cake for my birthday."

"That's what I'm going to think about, Azultep. Now is there anything actually serious you want to talk about?"

"I want chocolate cake with snoozel-berries and whipped cream and cherries and caramel drizzle and rainbow sprinkles and-"

Szazadrekh groaned. Of course the cake was serious, all of Azultep's wants and whims were to be taken seriously. Even with the choice of preserving his dignity by trying to escape the ancient warship, he decided to fetch Azultep a birthday cake. There were enough legends about Lords who did not do Azultep's bidding, and Szazadrekh refused to be part of that ever-growing list.

"Where should I begin my search?" Szazadrekh said.

Two Scyrens ran in front of the Necron rulers and opened their arms, forming two inward facing L's. Between the L's a projection of a planet appeared.

"I've been receiving interesting signals from this planet. An old dynasty seems to be awakening."

"So you're asking me to fetch you a cake several millennia old?" Szazadrekh scratched his chin. "Also, we're in range of this planet so I don't see why you can't get it yourself."

"Well if the transmissions are right there should be fresh cake waiting. Also, it wouldn't be a birthday if the birthday baby is the one retrieving the cake and presents."

"Technically it would be still a birthday cake."

Azultep stared at Szazadrekh in total silence. In the distance, the gentle scratches of a leaf touching the floor echoed.

"Fine!" Szazadrekh threw his hands up. "I'll get it!"


	25. Episode 25: Personal Play

**Episode 25**

**Personal Play**

* * *

The four Inquisitors approached several crewmen blocking their path. The corridor was wide, and to block it in their formation required a large presence which they easily provided. The crewmen smelled of frustration, desperation, perspiration, and farts.

The five man deep formation separated as an officer made his way to the front where he took a firm stance before the Inquisitors. He stood at attention, arms behind back, legs spread, brow hellbent. "Captain's orders: no one touches what's not theirs."

Cut-face stepped forward in a similar fashion, coat tails moving with the flow of air from a nearby vent, approached the officer. "Inquisition's orders: all required materials for purging heresy will be freely accessed to perform Emperor's duty."

The officer stepped close enough that he could smell Cut-face's breath. He exhaled under the Inquisitor's nostrils, but Cut-face did not flinch. He had smelled more foul heresy, and compared to the worst the officer's breath soiled by unbrushed and rotting teeth was like perfume.

"Imperial Navy officer's duty: to ensure the survival of the Imperium including its loyal servants aboard a vessel on detached duty and low on resources so said vessel does not fall into enemy hands."

Cut-face moved into kissing distance of the officer and grabbed him by the chin. His aged, stubbled face loomed over the young officer's. "Imperium Soldier's duty: to assist, obey, and cooperate with present Inquisitor without resistance or question to prevent and purge all heresy."

The officer pushed his head against Cut-face's. "What you are doing here is suicide! And suicide is heresy!"

Cut-face sniffed. "What you are doing here is disobedience and refusal of cooperation with a member of the Emperor's Inquisition! And that is of a greater heresy!"

The officer pulled his head back and then thrusted it into Cut-face's. It cracked against his. The officer stumbled back, his hand over a newly placed dent on his head. Cut-face's stalwart forehead glistened in the light of the corridor in all its war-torn glory.

"The Inquisition is a traitorous organization!" screamed the officer as his eyes started to roll in their sockets.

"I smell..." Cut-face rubbed the tip of his nose. "Heresy."

Under their cloaks, the Inquisitors drew their Bolters and put their fingers on the triggers. Behind his back Cut-face slipped a thumb into the pin ring of a grenade.

Some crewmen cracked their knuckles while others polished pots, pans, pipes, swords, spears, and any melee weapon they brought with them.

The Inquisitors were outnumbered ten to one. It wasn't the first time they had to face off against insubordinate crewmen or fight a foe stronger in number, however it was their first time fighting a foe of insubordinate crewman stronger in number.

Cut-face wrapped his large gloved hand around the young officer's neck. The kid was a pretty young thing. "How sad, you were so young." He pulled the kid closer and squeezed his grasp on his neck.

The officer coughed up blood and spat in the Inquisitor's face. "We can't have a scarred throat, can we?" he said and dropped the officer onto the floor.

The officer kneeled with hate in his eyes. "You mon-" Cut-face crammed his fist down the officer's throat, the jaw dislocating with a loud crack and a muffled scream. He pulled the pin inside the officer's esophagus and punted the chocking man into the crowd. Crewmen rushed to their officer's aid.

"OF COURSE, FIRE!"

The three other Inquisitors opened up on the crowd. Cut-face pulled the pins on more grenades, cooked them, and threw them into the crowd. Blood splattered and flesh was ripped out by the heavy calibre rounds the Bolters pumped. The grenade explosions ripped bodies into a fleshy confetti. Some crewmen tried to escape the chaos, others tried to charge at the Inquisitors, only to slip on the grenades or have chunks of their body torn off in the hailstorm of bullets.

The Inquisitors, Bolters still blazing, made a steady advance toward the meaty mess of ground crewmen.

More grenades exploded and shook the ground with a blast that sent pieces of shredded crewmen in all directions. Through the mist of blood, bile, and flesh, the Inquisitors emerged as justice incarnate. Bystanding crewmen turned and made a run for it, but their fragile bodies could not keep themselves together as .75 calibre rounds ripped through their flesh.

Stained with blood, the four Inquisitors strolled down the hall, shooting every crewman unfortunate enough to come into their sight leaving behind them a trail of twisted and shredded corpses.

* * *

Kophtet met Szazadrekh in the hangar. The ceiling reached high, the walls spread far, and the floor stretched wide. It was quiet, besides the occasional rattle from the maintenance shafts. Szazadrekh walked toward the ramp where the Cryptek crawled down.

"How did it go, Lord Szazadrekh? What did Azultep want?"

Szazadrekh passed the Cryptek and stopped a few paces away. "Cryptek Kophtet, prepare for phasing to the planet surface."

Kophtet stopped, humming in curiosity. "Ah, he needs some specimens?"

"No, Cryptek." Szazadrekh turned around. "He wants cake."

"Cake?"

"Cake."

Kophtet's legs rattled up next to the Lord. "Cake?" He had seen cake but could only enjoy the taste with his Sehkers.

"Cake. Of course, he wanted me to get some, but I have other duties."

"So the old nutjob wants some ancient cake and your going to stay here and do nothing?"

"No, he wants some fresh cake and I have to make sure Nephalut has some boundaries, for your sake of course."

"I could always stay-"

"We both know about last time, Kophtet. You and Nephalut alone could destroy the galaxy and beyond if given enough."

"True." Kophtet's gaze wandered away. A chuckle rattled within him. Although he despised his colleague, he found an amusing romantic element in the idea of being alone with her to fight out their differences for the rest of eternity. A little part of him wanted to wrap Nephalut in his Sekhers, remove every part of her from the waist down, and attach her to the same base connecting his upper torso and the lower abdomen with the six legs. Then he could fondle her and love her ceaselessly, and perhaps she would begin to see things from his perspective. if he mounted her in front of him, he could always stare into her beautiful eyes and-

Szazadrekh put his hand on Kophtet's shoulder, awaking the Cryptek from his brief fantasy. "How much longer until you're ready?"

"Give me... less than a cycle."

"An eighth?"

"A sixteenth." Kophtet was already back up the ramp and closing the lift doors before Szazadrekh could reply.

"Oh Kophy, so impatient yet so efficient." Lord Szazadrekh looked around the empty hangar.

A loud whirring he heard behind him. He turned to see what it was.

Out of the green, energetic orb stepped Azultep who whistled his way over to Szazadrekh. Meanwhile, legions of Scyrens exited the energetic orb and filed every inch of the hangar, leaving no room besides a wide path to the Lord.

"Azultep?"

"Szazadrekh! What a marvelously... how can I put this nicely? ...shitty vessel you have here! I always told my Crypteks - those old piles of junk - to stick with the old designs. I was concerned at first that the new vessels would out-class the old ones, but after this encounter I have been reassured that you younger automatons might as well swim your way through space like that outer-galactic pestilence. You'd all be better off."

Szazadrekh cleared his vocal mechanisms. "Thank you, Azultep. Your wisdom is truly transcending..." The sarcastic tone didn't come out making Szazadrekh sound more serious than he wished he sounded.

"No problem." Azultep grinned. "Ask whatever and I shall answer with my ancient wisdom!"

Szazadrekh looked away for a moment. "Sometimes I wish you would catch Alzheimers like every other old sentient thing in existence..." He said in a personal whisper.

"Alzheimers you say?!"

Anxiety struck the Lord. "Oh C'tan no..." Apparently Azultep still had fantastic hearing.

"Ohoho! For your information, I prevent Alzheimers by constantly satisfying my innermost reproductive animalistic desires!"

"Uh... what?"

Azultep chuckled and patted Szazadrekh on the back. "How do you think I got all of these Scyrens? I certainly didn't go around and fetch them all. Sure, there's a fuck-ton out there, but I can't trust angsty Lords in finding such... personal assistants."

"But- they're- we're-" Szazadrekh scratched his head. Surely their machine bodies couldn't reproduce. Then again, Azultep had some talented Crypteks backing him up.

"I've had one of my Crypteks develop a reproductive system on each member, and make it so the trait would be passed on with each newborn Scyren. Hence the change in abdomen plates."

"Well I would've never guessed that. But wait, have you reproduced with only - as I understand - the first generation?"

"Of course not! That would get boring after a while, and I remember an old friend telling me that doing the same thing over and over was the one path to Alzheimers, insanity, and confusion. So now I'm doing everything randomly! Or should I say every one of my Scyrens."

"So what you're telling me is that you have a... a... aaaa..."

"A glorious, wonderful, amazing penis? Yes. Indeed I do! It's bigger and harder than the one I had before I became this unstoppable, uncontrollable, irresistible, incredible sex machine that I am this very cycle! I may have the temperament and mind of a child, but I have the sexual drive of an out of control, angsty teenager who's desires have been repressed and his self-esteem crushed under the heels of society, forever seeking admiration, respect, and the envy of his peers by banging every thing in sight!"

"Well that's some fantastic incest you have going there," Szazadrekh said with a sarcastic undertone. "Now if you could keep your naughty bits to yourself while in the presence of my fleet, everyone will be happy."

"Don't worry, Szaza, for it is not the bony butts of your kinsmen that I seek - although might I say Nephalut has been looking pretty fantastic as of lately..." Two Scyrens stood behind him in a projection stance, projecting a full body profile of the Cryptek in her curvy, seductive form. "Scyrens! Write this down! Note to self: Find the energy frequency of Malat to ask Nephalut out for a few cycles. Damn does that transvestite Cryptek MAKE ME HARD! My dick's so hard it could collapse into a black hole any moment now! Imagine that, Szaza. Having a black hole for a vagina!"

"Ahem!" Szazadrekh put his hand on Azultep's shoulder. "Now Azultep, can you tell me why exactly you boarded my ship when I could've just easily boarded yours, besides telling me about your personal pleasures?"

"Well Szaza, it's very simple." Azultep placed both hands on Szazadrekh's shoulders. "You see, I'm planning on joining Kophtet with his little expedition down to the planet's surface-"

"Wait, if your willing to go down with Kophtet, why don't you get the cake yourself?"

A thick silence passed through the hangar.

"Because reasons, Szaza. Very important reasons."

"Like?"

"Like pbbbt and pbbbt. Also, pbbbbbt pbbbbt pbbbbt. And let's not forget, pbbbt pbbbt pbbbt pbbbbbbbbbt."

"Talk about some well thought out reasons," Szazadrekh stepped back and crossed his arms. "Your sound logic makes me envious-"

"Like everything else about me!" Azultep threw his cape back, thrusting his staff into the air. "Like the fact that I can eat as much cake as I want and have all the butt I want with my glorious dick! See, not only does the magic of the penis fight against Alzheimers, it cures depression! As I heard a civilization once say, L-O-L BEST THANG EVAR! Rejoicing aside, I'm glad I have a penis again, a penis so strong I've split mountains with it. Now if you will excuse me, I have some important business to attend to."

Azultep and his Scyrens phased out of view.

Szazadrekh looked up. "Belakh, scan the ship and make sure this old nutter doesn't destroy half of it."

Overhead, audio glyphs squeaked in merry reply.

Szazadrekh sighed. "That Azultep... What an asshole..."


	26. Episode 26: Getting Personal

**Episode 26**

**Getting Personal**

* * *

He rebooted with a whirr.

The small bug awoke in the cell with his ork companion. Gretznuk, sitting in the corner, sighed and pointed to the bladed door, behind it stood twelve skeletal Necron warriors, all facing inward. The bug shook the dust off of him and with his hind legs scraped the soot from his behind, and then approached the door.

"Why hello there," the bug squeaked. "How are we all today?"

Gretznuk grinned. Here he was, back to square negative one and positive two. He had a friend who he could talk to as the watchful gaze of twelve apathetic, soulless machines violated whatever sense of privacy he had. How lovely.

"Pretty fantastic I think," said Gretznuk. "That escape sure was successful!"

"Oh shut your sarcastic mouth!" said the bug. "At least we can be thankful that you aren't a burnt, skinless crisp like half of the others."

"Half of the others? What am I, another name on a list?"

"On a very long list. If the names were a quarter of the size of your thumb width, and the canvas a lengthy paper scroll, it'd be longer than this vessel."

"Well aren't you a suspicious little bug..." Gretznuk said, surprised he even trusted this thing in the first place.

"A suspicious bug surrounded by incompetent captives. At least you do have the pondering side to you. It's been a while since I've had a companion as thoughtful. Most of them are too devoted to an Emperor of 'Humanity', a pathetic Greater Good, some Elfish shit, and a disgusting guttural throat growl, from what I assume is from some horrible species wide deep throat accident, that they usually try to stab my back when they think their home free. And that's when I stab their back, quite literally. Digressing onward, It's been a while since I've been back in containment, but at least I have you to entertain me as we wait for what could possibly be the rest of eternity."

"Some interesting honesty in your tone, and some affection." Gretznuk smiled. "Nevermind the suspicion, I'm glad to be locked up with you. Together we could probably solve many questions."

"Yea verily, my dear fellow. Questions about life, the universe, and everything!"

Gretznuk rose from the floor. "Well what now? I'm too tired to think of any important questions right at this instant as our little adventure has silenced my curiosity." He stopped for a moment, cupped his hands around his ears, approached the door, and turned his head from side to side. "I suppose the blue alien is going to clap her way down the hall again. Do you know anything about her? I've been curious about why she isn't kept like we are."

"I'm surprised you haven't figured that out already. She is one of them beneath the skin, or rather he."

"He?"

"Yes, he. Mind if I explain?"

"Considering we're under the watch of many eyes that do not care about what we do in here, please do," said Gretznuk, walking over to the raised slab against the wall to sit.

"But before I explain, I've just realized we've never properly introduced eachother. Funny how that slipped my mind, I often get to know my companions before taking on any ventures. But I guess this way is better because instead of the adventure doubling my disappointment, your personal description of who you are and where you came from will triple my disappointment, or so I anticipate."

"Well, I'm an ork who's green-"

"Perhaps who you are physically is important to you, but for your information I don't want to know about the obvious. I can see you in twelve billion spectrums and I have no difficulty seeing that you are green in eighteen... possibly eighteen hundred."

"I was born from a fungus aboard a derelict vessel-"

"I also knew that."

"I am thoughtful-"

"Painfully obvious."

"I was different from my peers-"

"Knew that as well."

"I am young-"

"Duh."

"Alright then..." Gretznuk scratched his chin. "I suppose the only thing you don't know is my name."

"Correct!"

"Wait a minute." Gretznuk once more felt a strong suspicion about his companion. "If you knew all that about me, how do you not know my name? And why not tell me directly what you don't know?"

"If I'm going to be here for all eternity, I might as well be willingly ignorant on some details and make sure we don't run out of things to talk about. But I suppose it would get annoying after a while."

"So you shouldn't do it."

"Do you want to end up back in silence?"

"No."

"Exactly."

"At least we should get to the point," said the ork. "My name is Gretznuk. That's the name I gave myself after finding some labeling device onboard the space hulk. Yazbeb, or Netzerbek if you know him by that name, refused to give me a name unless I fixed his ship."

"Ah. Not allowing the commands of others to hamper him and self-determination. Qualities of a good thinker. I like that."

"I don't think that's true."

"True, because your partially those qualities. Anyway, continue."


	27. Episode 27: Going Lower

**Episode 27**

**Going Lower**

* * *

The five Inquisitors stood before the Lord Captain Caius Augustus on the bridge. Armed officers and crewmen surrounded them, weapons ready. While the crew around them were tense with fear, frustration, and despise, the five Inquisitors remained calm. Their deadpan gazes clashed against the Lord Captain's furious eyes. Behind him the curved edge of the planet's atmosphere filtered the warm glow of the star behind it into a cool purple as the _Prime Fidelis VI_ slid into the world's shadow. A sea of lights on the surface twinkled in the twilight.

"Inquisitor, these past few hours you've crossed over more lines than a hobo walking through a rail yard." The Lord Captain's fingers danced on his palms. His shoulders rose and fell with every heaving breath he took. He had come to a place where he had to do what he did not want and face the consequences whatever they may be. A dwindling amount of supplies, a paranoid crew, and out of control Inquisitors. Within less than a week everything had gone to hell. "Even in the face of our present hardships which you and your colleagues have created, I will maintain my duty to fulfill our duty to the Emperor. I will not flee in the face of danger, the Emperor be my witness."

"Really now, Captain?" said the lead Inquisitor. "I would like you to know that those men died in service to their Emperor-"

"Their deaths were in vain." The Captain's face flushed red. "Killing them was not an act of honor, but an act of unnecessary desperation!" He grabbed the cap on his head, threw it to the ground, and crushed it with the heel of his boot. "The last straw has been taken and no longer will my crew and I tolerate your apathy towards us! Your blatant disregard for everyone aboard this ship other than yourselves is absolutely disgusting. Men will starve because of you, morale will drop, and heresy will run amok-"

"Excuse me, but did we not agree this planet needed to be purged? I only acted to lay the foundations that would allow the Inquisition to eliminate all heresy and turn the people to their one true Emperor! Your fickleness to lend me the necessary resources is what caused this mess, not some supposed disregard for you or your crew. Let me remind you that you gave me permission to use what I needed and when I went to use the resources, you refused me access."

"What can you expect when you've made it obvious you don't understand the word 'no'?"

"What part of the Inquisition knows no boundaries do you not understand?"

"I'm sorry, but that's absolute heretical bullshit and you know it! I swear by His name, if anyone aboard this vessel is truly a heretic it is you and your company!"

"We will be the ones who determine what is heresy and what isn't, Lord Captain."

"Fine then. In that case I'm removing you from my ship."

"Remember what I said earlier?" said the lead Inquisitor with a sly grin.

"Call me a mad captain, but I will preserve my crew with the authority bestowed upon me. And if protecting them and the ship from falling to Chaos in this desolate region means kicking you off the ship, I will gladly do it."

"Who would have guessed that a man of your rank and experience would turn to cowardice in what could be his finest hour-"

"When it is you who are the coward. Leave the bridge and take your shuttle down to the surface. I will have no more of this!"

The guards raised their guns and aimed at the five. Surrounded and outgunned, the lead Inquisitor for a moment entertained the idea of killing them all and taking control of the ship. However there were better ways to get back at a uncooperative captain. Given enough time, the captain and his crew would have to either find a way to return home or come down to the planet's surface.

He wiped off his annoyed look and replaced with an optimistic grin. "Well I thank you, Lord Captain, for your generous offer. I assure you, you will hear from me soon." Then he and his fellow Inquisitors left the bridge and headed straight for the shuttle bay.

"You are never to return here again! And if you dare come rumbling back for help, I will blow you to pieces and send you to burn in the atmosphere!" The Lord Captain drew his saber and threw it to the door. The blade stuck with a ping. Now it was a matter of rationing their supplies as long as they could, and re-establishing the Astropath's connection to the warp.

How long they could hold out, the Lord Captain wished he knew.

* * *

Kophtet was prepared to invade the planet with the assistance of his freshly polished staff and just bathed scarab, Basep. He also had his armored plating polished and his Sehkers lubricated just in case the specimen gathering became a little violent.

"Basep, I want you to get ready to grab some cake and defend it." Kophtet let the small scarab crawl onto his shoulder. The idea that he was some birthday delivery service for an ancient king would have ground his gears if he had any. Fortunately, he wasn't of that dynasty.

He turned at the sound of fleshy feet slapping against the living metal floor. It was her, and he swore to himself he would not be fetching anything else other than a couple thousand specimens for his own research and a cake for an old king's birthday.

"Nephalut, shouldn't you be back in the lab playing with your toy?"

"Perhaps... Then again, he hasn't been that entertaining of a subject lately."

"Ah, yes," the Cryptek replied. "My colleague comes out and admits that she seeks pleasure over knowledge. How predictable."

"Says the Cryptek who is addicted to impaling every organic life form he can get his hands on. At least I allow most of my specimens to retain some form of dignity."

"Shoving your hand up a specimen's rectum sounds quite dignified," said Kophtet. "Who would've known!"

"Well at least I'm not the pastry delivery service of a crazy old Lord," she said and chuckled.

"Show him some respect!"

"Mhm... Anyway, do you know where that instruction booklet we picked up a while ago went? I remember it had some exotic techniques when it came to Terran sexual past-times."

"You mean 'A Thousand Ways to Please: A Pocket Guide To Spicing Up The Bedroom'? No, and I hope that disgusting book stays lost."

Nephalut smiled and walked away. "Oh, Kophy Kophy Kophy... Well, if you find it or catch any leads, let me know... Otherwise I'll have to start borrowing some more subjects for more advanced methods." Nephalut walked back into the shadows of the dimly lit corridor, snapping her fingers and whistling a naughty tune.

A loud buzzing came from behind Kophtet before he had the chance to vent his frustration. He turned around, stepped back, and bowed before the ancient king.

"Greetings, Cryptek!" he said as he waved a small booklet in his hands.

"Hello, my Lord," Kophtet replied, bowing.

From under his cape, Azultep pulled out a small paper booklet. "I find your companion's choice of reading material to be rather interesting. These... descriptions... I've been disturbed and aroused before, but not at the same time! Nevertheless, I shall accompany you down to the surface to make sure the cake is right. I'm sure Szaza told you how I despise that abomination that everyone keeps bringing me as if I had such terrible taste!"

"What abomination?"

"Fruitcake! It's disgusting, much like you, this booklet, and Cryptek Nephalut. Worst of all, those filthy Warp whores keep bringing it as if it's the only cake that exists!"

"I'm sorry, but did you call me disgusting? From what I heard, you told Szazadrekh that all of your guards are your inbred children."

Azultep patted the Cryptek on the back. "My dear Kophtet, sometimes you must tell a certain story to a certain person in a certain way so that he can comprehend it. See, I do have a shiny metal dick, but I only use it on the Lychscyren, the chief of my guard and the High Ruler of the Scyrens. With Scyrens being both excellent as guards and warriors, I've run into several figures who've wanted to employ their services. But there's a problem."

"A problem?"

"My dynasty owns all of their homeworlds, so technically they belong to me. Meaning that these other persons of interest..." Azultep coughed, "Trazyn!" And again coughed. "Often try to take what is mine. So I tell everyone that a majority of the Scyrens are inbreds, C'tan bastards, or anything else to make them undesirable."

"You are quite the selfish asshole, Azultep-"

Azultep slammed his staff into the floor. A frown formed on his face.

"But you certainly do have quite a bit of honor," Kophtet said, his words stumbling out from his lips in haste. "Anyway, are you bringing along some of your Scyren's?"

"Perhaps... maybe... but I was thinking of bringing you along in particular."

"But I was going anyway-"

"Sh! I was thinking that perhaps I needed a younger mind for a little project I would like to do..."

"What? So this isn't just about cake? You sly-"

"Shut up!"

"Sorry!"

"I don't need your hate, all I need is cake, and perhaps something else, but that's beside the point. I will accompany you down, and in return you will help me with my other project."

"That's lovely and all, but I'm afraid not," said Kophtet, stepping back.

"HEY! Don't hate, just cooperate!"

"What makes you think I'll cooperate with you-" The pinching sensation of the staff's tips around his throat, lifting him off the ground derailed the Cryptek's thoughts.

"Keep bitchin' and I will disassemble your shiny metal ass faster than you can say, 'scrap heap'. Am I clear?"

"Y-yes..." Kophtet stuttered on his words as he pushed him out. "L-Lord A-Azultep!"

Azultep dropped Kophtet to the floor and whacked him over the head. "Then down we go! Glorious non-Fruitcake awaits us!" In a flash of green he dissapeared.

Kophtet adjusted himself and feeling like he was alone, said, "What an asshole..."


	28. Episode 28: Going All-Natural

_Status update: Been taking some time to improve the writing, as well as study as midterms are coming up. Once more I apologize for the lack of publishing this past week._

* * *

**Episode 28**

**Going All-Natural**

* * *

The Inquisitor woke with a cold sting against the back of her neck. She turned her head, feeling the cool round surface her neck rested on. The back of the chair was stainless steel, and with this in mind she remembered where she was.

In front of her in a sweat-drenched undershirt was the lead guard. His elbow moved back and forth while a spoon clanged against a bowl. He stopped and turned. "Finally, your awake. For a second I was beginning to wonder if this would be too hard for you."

"This?"

"Cooking and baking. You said you had experience so I was caught off guard when you fainted."

"Oh." It started coming back to her. "Yea... I'm sorry but I haven't had much experience using such... exotic devices on myself."

The lead guard set aside the bowl and spoon and leaned against the counter. His brow raised and his mouth contorted into an unsure grin. "Well that's a strange way to cook. Heh. Seems a bit kinky, and a bit unsanitary. No offense but I'm not into that kind of stuff."

"Wait, so we weren't going to have sex?"

The lead guard's eyes opened with understanding, and he chuckled. "Did I overdo the tease? A lot of my friends tell me I do." He folded his arms. "Anyway, I didn't mean to suggest that we would be doing _it_. I simply wanted to break the ice since you would clam up and get all pissy."

The room warmed, melting away the uncertainty. The Inquisitor rose from her chair with a returning chuckle and stepped toward the counter. "Talk about awkward..." she said, looking at the overcast forming in the sky. Small droplets of water gathered against the window, the rest dancing on the roof or on the ground outside.

The lead guard cleared his throat. "So do you have experience? In cooking of course, I'm not talking about intercourse." Thunder growled through the complex, and the rain drops hit the roof with greater weight. He picked up the bowl and continued mixing.

"I have experience, but not that much." She replied, her eyes on the dough in the bowl. "I'm sorry for having such a dirty mind, I didn't-"

"Oh no no, it's entirely my fault. I should've thought before I decided to tease you a bit. You are beautiful, but I wouldn't make you go out of your way to do something as degrading as having sex with your captors. My men and I may cut corners here and there, but not to the degree of doing something so depraved to anyone we've imprisoned." He grunted as the dough thickened.

The Inquisitor watched the lead guard struggle to mix the dough. "Need help?"

"Sure," he said, and handed her the bowl.

She struggled for a few moments and then said, "Get me a cup of water. The dough's a bit dehydrated."

Moments later he returned and poured the water into the dough. "Don't you have a machine for this?" she asked. "I mean for the water and mixing."

"We do, but there are some jobs that humans can do that machines aren't good at."

* * *

Time passed in the cell containing the ork, Gretznuk, and the bug. The bug started a long speech discussing the background of the ship, and why he couldn't leave. His reason was that he had no where else to go, and being clumsy could never find his way out even though he knew his way around the ship. Then he went on to describe a fraction of the captives he tried to lead out, describing in detail the flaw of every attempt and his eventual backstabbing of each and every one of them for betraying him or doing something incredibly "regretable". Then he thoroughly described his absolute hatred of watching other incompetent prisoners beg and plead for help, and his hunch that the Crypteks knew of the little hitchhiker's presence. "I have no doubt that they are quite aware of me now that this has happened." Then the bug discussed his long list of dislikes, involving the putrid scents of various flora or fauna specimens that had been gathered aboard, their disgusting appearance, and every other feature of them that offended his senses. In his long list he mentioned a large green, split ork, but only for a brief moment before drowning out that particular detail with fifty other examples of specimens and samples that he despised.

Gretznuk yawned. "Pardon, but what was your name again?" he asked, interrupting the bug mid-list.

"Ah, sorry. My name is C'telatankh Belassalephetamuhesetutekh Ramashepentafatorenkkelaput Szazothemosopeph L'Kukem-kahmenamosamun."

"C'te-what?"

The bug said the name again. For a long while after, the ork tried to pronounce the name.

"But you may call me C'tebas," said the bug as his impatience began to reach homicidal levels. "Or C'tel, or Salephet, or Tutekh, or Phet-"

"Phet sounds splendid," replied Gretznuk.

Phet let out a sigh of relief. "Fantastic, because I was about to rip out your spine and beat you to a pulp after the hundred and thirty fifth attempt."

"Well you could've just told me to call you Phet, or was this another ploy to burn more time?"

"If I told you my name was Phet, or some other shortened variant of C'telatankh Belassalephetamuhesetutekh Ramashepentafatorenkkelaput Szazothemosopeph L'Kukem-kahmenamosamun, and you found out that my name was C'telatank Belassalephetamuhesetutekh Ramashepentafatorenkkelaput Szazothemosopeph L'Kukem-kahmenamosamun, which, by the way, rolls off tongues oh so wonderfully, there would've been a high chance of you considering me a liar, or some other reason that would lead you to conclude that I am a suspicious character."

"But I do consider to you be a suspicious character with a name like that, to be quite honest."

"A more suspicious character. Digressing from the matter, it is a somewhat disappointing honor to meet you Gretznuk."

Gretz raised a brow. "I'm sorry, but 'somewhat disappointing'?"

"Yes. Be happy your not 'Entirely disappointing' like everyone else."

"If that's my only option, alright then-"

"Now that we've properly introduced each other-"

Gretznuk disagreed internally.

"I believe the next thing in order is to discuss something intellectually stimulating."

"Don't look at me, I don't have anything," Gretznuk said, shrugging.

"Don't have anything? In the absolute or in the relative?"

"Absolute or relative?"

"Yes, Absolute," said the bug. "Absolutes are scary things, my green companion. Be grateful that extreme absolutes rarely exist, and that temporary absolutes make up a majority of what absolutes there are. And on that point, let me say this; the faith in the absolute is both the beginning seed of the weeds of ignorance and the first rung of the ladder of knowledge."

The ork looked to the ground as his mind tried to sort through his thoughts, trying to attach what he picked up in Phet's words of insight. "Could you explain that?"

"I could, but first you must answer my question. In the absolute or in the relative?"

Gretznuk sighed. He had a feeling that instead of burning time, their discussions would only make more of it.

* * *

Nephalut tossed her dried Terran skin cloak on a rack by the door and laid herself on the fluffy black sofa in her quarters, the bear skin cushions filled with down feathers. Another benefit of having - or wearing as one could technically call it - skin as she did was that she had a greater feel for texture and fluffiness. Without the skin over her skeletal machine-like body, the sofa would've felt smooth and cushiony, without fluff or the warmth.

She pulled over herself a blanket of a similar fur belonging to a rather large canine variant. Between the covers and the cushions was a pocket of warmth that made being on the same vessel as Kophtet more bearable. In a comfortable position she looked up at Malat who had Selat, his companion Spyder Scarab, hold him from a web above. Malat chirped.

"Test four of brief period sleeping. Goal is to see any significant changes in overall conditions within, without, and of the body within a short quarter of a cycle of slumber. Sub-goal, to induce hallucinations through brief hibernation and to check for their level of vividness."

Malat chirped and squeaked.

"Begin full analysis of environment and bodily functions in three, two, one..."

Nephalut closed her eyes, yet remained conscious for quite some time. Then she began to feel a strange wavy sensation that began within her arms, went into her shoulders, up her neck, and down her torso to her feet. It was as if within her and all around her was an ocean. Waves pulled back and forth with strength, but gently, rocking her into a hypnotic rhythm. The waves alternated between sloshing back and forth and side to side. Yet even as her senses told her she was moving in a liquid, her body remained still and relaxed under the fur blanket on the fluffy, black sofa.

She began to worry that she would end up with the continuous sensation for quite some time, never going to sleep as it had happened the previous three times.

Then she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time. Something unexpected. Something primal.


	29. Episode 29: Unnatural Taste

**Episode 29**

**Unnatural Taste**

* * *

The field was covered with the peaceful green of grass rather than the warmongering green of orks. Pine trees scattered in clusters throughout the valley swayed when the wind whistled through their diminishing canopies. Bird chirped as they flew between branches. The air was cool but not cold, and a strong scent of sap made every inhale nauseating for the lead Inquisitor who saw nature's splendor as pathetic. It lacked the glory of the Emperor.

"Of course, we forgot the gas masks," said the tall one.

"Quit your bitching," said the short one. "It's a lot fucking better than the ship's nauseating shit vapor."

The four Inquisitors walked the Sun-kissed path along the mountainside as the Sun set behind them. Mixed with the pine needles, wood chips glistening in their coat of sap covered the path, crunching under their feet. At the front walked Purge-A-Lot, behind walked the tall one, then the short one, and at the back Cut-Face watched kept an eye on their six as their uniforms stood out against the environment. All but the lead huffed and puffed as they trudged up a steep, rocky path.

"Do not lose faith, my fellow Inquisitors! For our struggles are short under the benevolent gaze of our just Emperor! Rejoice in our brief trials for His glory!" the lead Inquisitor said, and frowned as a chorus of sighs echoed behind him.

"Are we going cook when we find a settlement?" asked the short one. "Because I am certainly not in the mood."

"That is the plan, _your_ plan, may I remind you. Unless you want to go by _my_ plans, which I would be fine with."

The tall one turned his head back, looked the short one in the eye with disapproval, and cleared his throat.

Hours passed and the weary troop of four found themselves at the gates of a large city where three wheeled vehicles entered and left from rails above. With the sun peeking over the horizon, they briefly discussed finding somewhere to stay for the night before entering.

Once more the populace paid no attention at the travelers, other than brushing shoulders, bumping into them, hurling insults, and doing whatever means necessary to make sure that the foreigners felt a warm welcome. The Inquisitors came into a large shopping plaza filled with tables, shrubbery, and fountains, all lit by glowing green crystals with strange symbols imprinted into them. Cut-face had an uncomfortable feeling of familiarity with the symbols, having the expertise of the Ordos Xenos. One thing that caught Purge-A-Lot's attention was the array of flags strung on ropes stretching over the open expanse.

The lead Inquisitor grabbed a local's shoulder. "Who's flags are those?"

"They're n-national flags, sir!" the young boy said.

"That's a lot of flags for one country-"

The short one cleared his throat.

The lead Inquisitor, offended by the correction, glared at his fellow and then turned back to the child. "So different flags for different countries?"

"Yes."

The lead Inquisitor tossed the child into a nearby stack of fruit crates, sending produce in all directions. "Why didn't our agents tell us that we were dealing with a multi-national colony planet?!"

"Of course, you asked a closed question."

"If I remember correctly," the short one said. "You asked if there was heresy and immediately scolded the agents the second they tried to explain in detail the situation."

"They were rambling about all sorts of things. I wanted to know if the planetary governor would cooperate and assist us."

"Look around you, Purge-A-Lot, could you explain this without rambling?" said Cut-face. "Back up there I wasn't just scolding your ass just because it was rude to interrupt them. This is what I was trying to point out-"

"I don't remember sending you down."

"That sometimes it takes a bit of yapping to describe a complex situation."

"And if I still remember correctly," the short one said. "You called them liars when they told you that there was no planetary governor and that there hasn't been one for the past two thousand years."

"Because that's a bunch of heretical bullshit," said the lead Inquisitor. He turned to the boy who was scrambling to get on his feet and picked him up by the collar. "Where is your governor?!"

"G-governor?!"

"Answer me!"

"A-at the capital center! Two kilometers from here, sir!"

"Aha! We need to get there quickly, what transportation do you recommend?"

The boy gasped for air.

"WHAT METHOD OF TRANSPORTATION DO YOU RECOMMEND, CHILD?!"

"T-the rail, the rail!"

The lead Inquisitor hurled the child into a nearby fountain.

"Of course, it is very strange that a child knows the distance."

Cut-Face and the short one glared at the tall one. The tall one's eyes opened wide when he understood. He took a clump of his long red hair, stuffed it into his mouth, and turned away.

"Good thinking, Inquisitor!" said Purge-A-Lot. "If he's lying, then we shall bring justice to the child and his irresponsible parents!" He paused and smiled as an idea came to mind. "Aaaah... There's one way we can check. Gentlemen, tonight we board in this child's home!"

Muffled by the hair in his mouth, the tall one said, "But couldn't that be illegal?"

"My dear red-head, the only way we Inquisitors could ever do something truly illegal is if we were to not follow the Emperor's will by performing our duties to him. If their laws forbid us from performing his duty, then the laws are heretical and must be rewritten by us whether it be by ink or by their blood!"

Cut-face and the short one looked at one another, their eyes searching for the will to speak in defense. Yet with the knowledge of their pushy, stubborn colleague, they kept their lips sealed.

"Remove your hair from your mouths and focus, Inquisitors! We have a duty at hand, and an opportunity to bring this planet into submission to the Emperor without having to cook a single pastry! Prepare your weapons and your tongues, for I guarantee you that we will have an ally in our plight this time tomorrow!"

* * *

Rolling in a pit of mud, Basep squealed with joy, joints squeaking and mud coating his body of metal. Through the mud, in the dim shadow of twilight, the blue segments of the scarab flickered blue. Azultep crouched down and watched the little scarab with amusement, his jaw bent into a crooked grin. A cold gust of wind whistled through the ancient king's armor as dirt sprayed against it.

Behind, Kophtet bashed his head into a dead tree. Only if he could go alone, everything would be fine. Instead he was paired with a crazy old machine who preferred infiltration of all things. It was hard to picture the old king as a stealthy Necron, then again he could phase in an out at will, something Kophtet could do but didn't do often. It wasn't in his style.

"Aw, isn't he so ADORABLE?!" said Azultep.

"Can we get going? I have plans-"

"And all the time you could ever need. My dear Cryptek, there are many things you should not take for granted in post-life, one of them being our Eternal state."

"I mean no disrespect, but I'd like to get plenty done before I turn into an old senile asshole like you."

Azultep's head rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees to look at the Cryptek with mischievous face. "What did you say? My old senile _asshole senses_ are tingling quite wonderfully for some _strange reason_, so I was a bit _distracted_." He snapped his fingers and twenty Scyrens phased in around the six legged Cryptek.

Kophtet stepped back, hands in the air. "Nothing! Nothing at all! I was just agreeing with you that yes, Basep is indeed adorable in the mud!"

"Oh, okay." Azultep's head rotated back around, clicking. "Be a little louder, and perhaps a bit more patient like your scarab friend here next time. You might learn a thing or two."

Kophtet cleared his throat and proceeded to bang his head against the dead tree.


	30. Episode 30: Feeling Feverishly Lonely

**Episode 30**

**Feeling Feverishly Lonely**

* * *

Lord Szazadrekh sat in his chair. His eyes followed Belakh as the little machine crawled up and down walls, tapping holographic and carved glyphs that flickered and whistled three note melodies as they activated, transformed into another glyph, and switched positions with adjacent glyphs. The Lord's fingers danced on the arms of his throne in the command center of the ship.

After a long silence, the Lord spoke. "Belakh, is Nephalut still busy?"

Belakh chirped.

"C'tan damn that Cryptek..." He slouched in his chair and stretched his legs out. The floor under his legs rose and the chair started to slide forward. The Lord poked a glyph and it stopped. "No thank you, Belakh."

Belakh squeaked.

"I don't care if it's bad posture, I'm a goddamn immortal machine. I'm not going to develop some spinal deformity by slouching. Speaking of bad habits, has Ptetakh figured out where we put those Terran smoke sticks?"

Belakh chirped in confusion and then beeped confidently.

"Yea, yea. Cigars. Where are they?"

Belakh squeaked with concern.

"It's not like I have any lungs to ruin anyway."

Belakh chirped inquisitively.

"I don't know how I'm going to puff one, but I'll find a way."

Belakh sighed, scurried over to a glyph, and squeaked at it. Over the glyph squeaked Ptetakh with surprise and some doubt. Belakh chirped reassuringly and closed the glyph.

Moments later a cigar fell into Szazadrekh's lap. He looked up. "Thank you." Looking down at the cigar, he wondered how he would smoke it. As Azultep said, he had no mouth other than a carving into his faceplate, so he whistled for Belakh's attention. "How long till she wakes up?"

Belakh chirped in answer.

"Well bring her over here. I need a jaw." Then a question struck him. Were the cigars any good? They certainly smelled worse than the soot reeds he enjoyed when he was still organic. From what he remembered, the soot reeds had a minty-cinnamon scent to them, while cigars smelled like scarab farts.

Perhaps he should ask someone with experience...

"Belakh, what's the condition of the big green thing that Kophtet found on that chunk? I have a few questions for him."

* * *

Phet stood on the blades and looked into the soulless eyes of the cell guards. He stuck his small head through to get a closer look.

"Have you ever wondered, Gretznuk, if there's anything behind those soulless glowing eyes?"

"I have. Don't even bother thinking about talking to them, it's not like they have minds of their own."

"Are you sure?" Phet said, looking back at the ork. "They could be a bunch of introverts, you know."

"Yes, and besides, Nephalut said they're being controlled by someone else."

"How do you know she's telling the truth? She could be leaving out some details, either purposefully or unintentionally."

Gretznuk thought for a moment, a short moment. Tiny steps rattled down the corridor of the ship. Phet looked through the blades once more and spotted a familiar face.

"Ptetakh! Hey! What's the word around the ship?"

Ptetakh sighed and continued walking.

"I know your ignoring me, you sassy piece of shiny metal ass. How about this, tell me where you are going and I'll stop harassing you."

The scarab hissed down the corridor. He wasn't going to have any of it.

Phet let out a defeated sigh that meant more than a strong detest toward discussing personal hygiene with Gretznuk once again. "I'd be lucky if I were able to leave."

"Hm?"

"This defeat, the containment of us both in a failed attempt to leave the premise, is no insignificant one, my green friend. Nor is it too significant that it must be recorded in official records. Rather it is like that of another brick of disappointment and depression being laid upon the wall that has been gradually rising between me and whatever desires I had hoped for ever since I laid my tiny feet on this disappointing ship."

Gretznuk rolled his eyes. "That's nice and all, and no offense but I'd give a damn about your wall of disappointment if it could help us out of here."

"Ah! Good point!" Phet said. "For as the bow draweth back the arrow to launch it forward, so must life pull back the observer with despicable events before sending them off in a fortunate direction."

"Thanks for the words, but I'd appreciate them more if they were unlocking that door..."

"I wasn't talking to you," said the bug. "I was reflecting on my own thoughts."

"And by coincidence you finished your thoughts right as I made my comment?"

"Exactly."

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit? What do you mean bullshit? Have you even seen a bull or a shit before? Or rather a bull shitting, or a mound of shit shaped like a bull for that matter? Do you even know what you are talking about, or is this one thing that you as an intellectual disappointment of an ork inherently know for some C'tan forsaken reason?"

Gretznuk sighed and clasped his hand against his forehead where the sting of another question begging to be answered burned through. Curiosity was coming back, and so were a few memories of what had happened previously.

"Oh C'tan! Migraines already? I hope they aren't contagious because it sure looks like they are and- ah, shit! I have one too. Thanks, idiot."

"Curse this curiosity and anxiety!" Gretz's words slurred through gritted teeth. "And here I thought we would silence it or at least put it to use by finding my life purpose."

Silence stood between them for a few moments.

The bug cleared his throat.

"What?" said Gretznuk.

"I did expect you to ask me about _my _migraine but I suppose _your business_ is more _important_. Mhm. I see how it is, you special-special person. And I'm not sure if this teamwork thing will actually work out for us."

Gretznuk's eyes opened wide.

"Aha! Now you realize that you owe me an apology. How disappointingly predictable."

"No no no. I just realized we are aimlessly arguing with the same frustration that I had when it was just me in this cell, assuming your migraine is an indicator of equal or relative frustration between the two of us."

"Were we?"

"I suppose so," said Gretznuk.

"Well, the argument sure is burning up our endless supply of time to be wasted so I see no problem."

"But you have to also consider in this case its not just me in this cell."

"Oh really now?" Phet stepped back and waved his claws in the air. "Oh look here! First Mate Oblivious just ranked up to Captain Obvious! How splendid!"

Gretznuk cleared his throat. "What I'm trying to say is that we, with our combined brain power, should be trying to find our way out of here instead of pondering ourselves to death! Every time we bring up a subject to debate or discuss we never answer it and only create more questions instead of answers!"

"First of all," the bug said as it cleared his throat. "I knew that's what you were saying-"

"Then why did you act like you didn't?"

"Because I'm bored and I'm hoping a little drama will spice up this dull moment. My second point is, that there are no absolute answers-"

"And everything we know, at the roots, is merely an assumption based on our immediate perception of the situation to the extent we are aware of. That's great to hear but I'm beginning to prefer something that can get me out of this cell so we can find my life purpose!" Gretznuk heaved out a heavy sigh.

"Correction to your previous point. We cannot ponder ourselves to death in here- okay, maybe you can, but I have a much longer time. Therefore your appeal falls quite flat on itself."

"Have you considered that they could pull you apart? Hm?"

"Wait, what?" said the bug.

"You heard me."

"Oh damnation," said the bug. "Thanks for reminding me why I dreaded those Crypteks."

The two cleared their throats for a moment.

"Well, we're right back where we started," said Gretznuk slumping against the wall.

"As always," said Phet. "An interesting definition of insanity is that it is the mental condition where one repeats the same thing over and over and expects change."

"In that case we're both insane..."

"...for having discussed this over... twenty four... twenty six... three hundred and twenty eight times every since we've been thrown back in here."

Gretznuk sighed once more.

Phet turned around and approached the door. "Then let's hope our blue lady finds us before we kill each other from either insanity or sheer boredom, even though it's actually not a smart idea to wait for the fickle yet timeless whores known as Chance, Fate, and Fortune to save one's arse from drowning in their own latrine or the situational equivalent."

"How about this then, I test the cell around us again and give you the data to record, then after we've collected quite a bit we sit down to discuss and ponder. If we find no solution and need more data, then we simply repeat the process until we find a solution."

"Ah! I was about to say that, but I'll let you get away with the credit this time. As for the idea, let's go for it- wait a minute. Didn't we try this four hundred discussions ago?"

"Do you still have the data from last time?"

"Yea, all of it."

"Then let's get back to work!"

Phet sighed as he watched Gretznuk use all of the senses to examine the cell once more: he licked the living metal, put his ear against it, scratched it with his knuckles, rubbed his fingers against the smooth surface, and sniffed it.

"We grow a little more insane with every thought within this intellectual isolation," the bug said. He then walked into a corner and rolled onto his back to count his little legs again. "One... two... three... four... five... six... one... two... three... four... five... six..."


	31. Episode 31: An Arousing Surprise

**Episode 31**

**An Arousing Surprise**

* * *

A neighborhood of tents and hover trailers surrounded the cave entrance. Terran colonists carrying large electric picks and wearing hard helmets covered the ground around the mountain base with their foot traffic, leaving the once forested ground bare with dry and powdery dust. Grav carts glided out of the cave's mouth with chunks of rock on their flatbeds, as well as fragments of a strangely carved stones.

At the largest tent with two covered walkways leading to two large trailers on both sides, two armed guards stood watch in front of the main flap. Men and women carrying clipboards and papers walked in and out at a steady rate. Inside the tent were several rooms, one of which contained a table that stood in front of a large screen where a semi-holographic map of the mountain interior jutted from the reflective cloth by two inches. Between the table and the screen stood a large man who had not shaved his stubble within two weeks, rested his palms on the table, and leaned on them. With black smoke billowing out of the reed held between his teeth, rising through his thick mustache, and staining the underside of his hat's brim, his eyes scanned the papers placed before him.

"And?" he said to an intern.

"Our engineering and architectural consultants conclude that complex XBC-68 is connected with the rest of the system, even to the megastructure of XAA-1 at the northern pole."

"Ah. So it is all part of one large system. Fascinating. And the glyphs?"

"Different, but they share the same geometry to the others found at other sites. Originally we thought that they were different languages spurring from one old one, like the Romance languages spurred from Latin, but the more of these glyph alphabets we find the more they look like dialects of one language and not branching languages."

"It says here you found a 'Rosetta Stone'? Here's a suggestion, name it the Cox Stone. Rosetta is dead."

"I suppose Cox Stone would be fine, as we aren't talking about an exact Rosetta. You see, it's like the Rosetta Stone as it hints to similarities between the languages through a repeating message, but it's not exactly a Rosetta stone. The language we know was widespread in this ancient civilization, the Prime Language, only shows up in the pieces bordering the top of the tablet, making part of it readable but not all of it decipherable."

The mustached man straightened himself and spat out black residue into a nearby ash tray. He brushed soot off his 'stache and adjusted his large belt. "We must dig deeper. Get me a comlink to the other sites, I need to know how deep they've explored their structures."

"Yes, sir!" The intern scribbled on his clipboard and slapped the paper down on the table. It was a form to go along with the data chart and glyph illustrations when it was time to catalog and file it in a library. He then walked through the flaps to the outside.

He strolled down the main dirt road passing through the massive camp, flipping through pages and pages of finds and notes to review and ponder the data. Over the mountains the sun cast its last rays as the twilight set in. The lights overlooking the dirt roads all over the camp flickered one by one as the deep shadow of the range gradually blanketed them in a cool darkness that soothed the sun scorched skin of the workers that had spent all day walking around the camp. It was a moment to look forward to, the brief half hour before supper. Work slowed down to a more relaxed pace and the tensions that had built since noon cooled with the breeze.

The intern stopped in the flickering incandescent glow of one of the work lights. He looked up. "Hmph. I should tell Fress to change the light." A snapping interrupted the sighing of the breeze. He figured it was the light, but as he listened more closely he realized it was coming from behind one of the tents.

The light went out, so he pulled out his pocket torch and cranked it up. A beam of blue light spread on the dusty road in front of him. He wandered among the tents, trying to pin point the source of the snapping.

It stopped.

He flashed the light around him, but there was nothing and no one in the tent alleys besides him.

It started again.

He followed the snapping to a utility tent. He walked around to the front, set the clipboard by the post, and parted the flaps. The snaps stopped again. The inside of the tent was dark. The intern looked up and noticed the LED strip was off. He flipped the switch back and forth but the tent remained dark.

Two loud pings shattered the silence of the tent. A precise pain pierced the back of his neck, and when he tried to turn around he found his feet refused to move. He looked down and found a stake driven through each one, binding them to the ground. A sudden numbness raced up from his calves, through his torso, and into his arms. A tickling sensation passed over his lips, and when he tried to open them to scream he felt the tight sensation of thread binding them together.

He looked down to his feet and watched as blood pooled under him. His head felt lighter, and the tent began to spin around him. His ears started to ring.

A feeling of metal claws digging into his scalp raced down the back of his neck and down his back. Although his body was numb, he could still feel the claws pull at his pale, sweaty skin as they crawled down the back of his shirt and into his pants. He tried moving his arms, but they swung at his sides, unresponsive.

Panic raced through his mind as did dizziness and anxiety. What was happening to him? Who else had found themselves in this dreaded situation? Who was doing this and why?

And then he felt two of the claws spread his hole apart, pulling, releasing, and pulling again in the fashion of a chef stretching dough. Then something feeling like a wide and long stone forced its way through, the claws pulling it in.

Sharp pain tore inside of him as the object dug its way in. Panic set in, and tears started streaming down the intern's face. The room around him faded visually and audibly. By the time the tears started to drip off his jaw, he was already unconscious.

* * *

She woke up to the tickling sensation of cold, tiny feet dancing on her face.

Nephalut opened her eyes to the sight of Malat's underside. He jumped off and landed on the floor with a squeak. She looked down to the little scarab as it wiggled its joints smooth.

"Are we still recording?"

Malat chirped in affirmation.

"I have awoken from the short slumber and I do not recall any dreams or similar hallucinations. Regarding the effects on the body, the organic functions required to maintain overall skin health have been rejuvenated and provide a refreshing feeling. In conclusion to this test, I find myself one step closer to achieving former sleep and twelve steps closer to organic conversion. End of record."

The glyph on the wall shifted shape before fading away. Nephalut sat up on the bed and patted her thigh. Malat crawled around, up the back, over her shoulder, across her stomach, and onto her leg. He turned to her and chirped.

"That's right, I should check on those two."

He squeaked, chirped, and squealed.

"What else could I expect from Szazadrekh. Well, I guess I should pay him a visit before he screws something up."

Malat clapped his claws in delight and hopped off her leg so she could get out of bed.


	32. Episode 32: Keeping It Rough

**Episode 32**

**Keeping It Rough**

* * *

The soles of boots pounded against metal. The air was heavy and reeked of bad breath. And the interior lighting had diminished to a faint red glow.

Desperate men carrying pipes, panels, and all manner of spare parts crowded the corridors in the deepest of the ship. Others brought tools, and a large portion of the crowd rushing from station to station brought with them elbow grease.

On the bridge, the Lord Captain stood with his back toward the blast doors, his face aimed at the twilight glow of the star around the edges of the planet. The atmosphere filtered the rays into a deep sea purple, which tainted the natural colors of the Lord Captain's skin and uniform. At the poles, fluttering ripples of green tossed and turned with the varying intensity.

"We have twelve more days of air," said a crewman over the intercom. "And our food supply has run short!"

The captain walked up to the window and put his hand on it. Then he sighed. "Damn Inquisitors! Forcing us to cooperate by emptying our air into space and burning what medical supplies we have left... And they call us heretical! I swear, the moment we find them I will have them executed in the name of the Emperor for attempted murder of over several thousand of the Emperor's most loyal servants!"

He paced back and forth for a while, muttering. "I suppose... no... is there another- no... but that can't be the only option... but... that's the only reasonable way..."

The sound of running feet clamored from behind him. The footsteps stopped and hard breaths replaced them. "Lord Captain, how long until we land on the surface?"

He rubbed his chin and looked around the bridge. "How many shuttles do we have left to our disposal? Is there enough for the crew?"

"Are we abandoning the ship?"

"The last thing we need is the Fidelis blown out of the atmosphere by paranoid colonists. With our necessary officers and most of our specialists dead, and me being the sole surviving high rank besides midshipmen like yourself, I highly doubt we would have the coordination necessary to enter the atmosphere in once piece, nevermind most of these men lacking the experience to make up for it."

"But wouldn't we be giving Chaos a free cruiser?"

The captain looked at the midshipman. "We do no know if Chaos is on the planet or nearby. If they are close and we die aboard the ship, they get the ship. If we abandon the ship, they get the ship. If we land the ship, which by the reports we've received about the surface would stick out like a busty ork at a brothel, we certainly wouldn't be able to take on any sizeable army. Even if we could defend ourselves they would still get the ship. To be completely honest, if Chaos is lurking under our noses, this ship is as good as theirs. We're weak and completely vulnerable thanks to those Inquisitors, so the only loyal option is to evacuate to the planet surface where we can regain strength, resources, and if we're lucky, number." The Lord Captain turned around and rested his hands behind his back.

"Should I tell the men to stop the repairs?"

"I doubt they could board the shuttles and repair the ship in an efficient manner."

"So evacuate the ship?" The midshipman stepped forward, chin and brow held high in doubt.

"Prepare, midshipman. We must prepare to evacuate. Relay the message. You are dismissed." The Lord Captain waved him away.

"Yes, Lord Captain." And the midshipman left the bridge.

The Lord Captain looked around at the crewmen who were looking back at him. "All of you are dismissed from your posts when you are done with your current tasks. Then grab your necessities and prepare to evacuate. That is an order."

* * *

"The Inquisitors have poisoned his mind," he said. "And how many times have I warned all of you of this danger? Far too many." His eyes were wide with enthusiasm, and his sweat could not cool his temper.

A crowd of crewmen stood before the officer on the platform. In front of him was the crucified corpse of the Chief Astropath, bruised and broken. His bloody, bare body hung from arms limp like cords. The nails left gouged holes in his wrists as the weight of his body pulled down, his legs refusing to support it. Spikes were driven into his head to ensure a swift death, the process of dying on a crucifix being a long and agonizing one.

"Now he asks us to abandon our ship, leaving it in the hands of Chaos. He and these Inquisitors are the heretics, not us. They have killed many of our fellow men, all loyal to the Emperor. I fear that they are corrupt- no. I know they are corrupt. We have seen how they have strayed from the will of the Emperor, and they still dare to command us to leave the ship and join those heretical colonists? I deny their authority in the name of the Emperor, and by the Emperor's glory I will gladly take on the responsibilities of Lord Captain as long as you are willing to assist me overcome such heresy."

The room filled with the roar of applause and satisfied shouting. Crewmen threw their fists into the air, and a few even shot their firearms at the ceiling.

The man on the platform raised his arms and the crowd settled. "I, Tiberius Legaius Pilate, will take charge of this ship and lead it to glory!"

Once more the crowd roared. Yet their wild celebrations changed to chants of death as an Inquisitor was lead through the crowd, in chains. "Crucify him! Crucify him!" they barked together.

"And here we find ourselves a traitor amongst us- no. A heretic disguised as a defender against heresy, as a purifier. He is no purifier, but a defiler! He speaks no words, for he knows that we will not fall for his lies!"

"Liar! Liar! Liar!" they chanted. Some spat on him, others threw nuts and bolts at him, and a bold few took their knives and reached through the crowd to cut into his arms. Yet through the abuse and sea of faces bathed in rage, the quiet one remained calm.

The Inquisitor looked at the crowd around him. Stripped of his weapons, he looked defenseless. The five men holding his chains yanked him up on the stage where they wrapped him in the chains and held him close. The Inquisitor looked at their waists - each man had a holster loaded with a bolt pistol, and the midshipman leading the crowd had a saber. Plenty of weapons were there, and all he needed now was a chance to slip out of his bindings.

"Tonight, the heretic dies!" Tiberius said, stirring the wild crowd.

Three men slowly unwrapped him, the other two stood at both saids watching him through their gunsights. He focused on their trigger fingers and listened to their nervous breath. The question that came to his mind was whether or not they could hit their target at a close range. Their fingers rubbed the grip of the bolt pistol, covering it with the sweat of their palms. Their hands were shaking and their eyes bloodshot. The Inquisitor could see that they believed they were focused, but they were so tense that they were not focused at all. Quite the opportune moment.

"I can't wait to cut out your tongue and make you swallow it!" said Tiberius, pointing at the quiet one with his saber. "I see those eyes of yours. I'll poke them out after you swallow your tongue."

"Just kill him!" someone in the crowd shouted.

The midshipman raised his hand. "Patience, justice is not something to be rushed."

With the shackles on his arms removed and the ones on his feet remaining, the three men bent down and began taking them off. "Lift your leg up," one said.

The Inquisitor raised his leg slowly, and pulled up the other, dropping himself. The two armed crewmen pulled the triggers. The bullets nicked the Inquisitor's nose on their way to the other crewmans' face. Their heads exploded into a fleshy red mess.

The Inquisitor fell on a crewman, smashing his face into the ground with a gut churning crunch. He grabbed the falling bolt pistols and as the other two crewman rose to retaliate blew their faces apart, the chunks flying into a stunned crowd. He then shot the chains off of the shackles around his ankles and plowed his way through through the crowd, blasting those in his way.

"SHUT THE DOOR!" screamed the midshipman.

Crewmen raised their weapons in the crowded room and began shooting in the Inquisitor's direction, only to massacre themselves in multiple, horrible friendly fire incidents in a large chain reaction.

A crewman reached for the door control panel only to have his hand explode the second it touched the button. The Inquisitor dove under and slid to the other side, the door slamming shut behind him, locking. He looked at the control panel from his side, raised his bolt pistol, and blew it apart. Behind the thick door he could hear the screams of men frantically shooting. "Friendly fire! FRIENDLY FIRE!" he could hear them scream, followed by the ratatat of bolters and the splatter of ripping and combusting flesh. Some of the rounds pinged off the door.

He lowered his bolt pistol. It was just him now, him and a ship full of angry crewmen, much of which were behind the door. Sure he pulled off a nimble stunt without a sweat, but any more similar ballsy attacks could push his luck. He had to find a subtle way to take care of the crewmen. Before, they were near expendable as they assisted with the Inquisitors, willing to die in service. Now they were a threat that needed to be put down, Emperor forbid any word of what happened on the ship were to get out.

He holstered his pistols and started running down the hall. They would hear him, and that's what he wanted them to do. It wouldn't be long until they could get out of the room and follow him, so he had to plan his next moves quickly. For a while he was the quiet one and they the loud ones, but that was going to change. He stopped at an intersection of corridors and saw his reflection in a nearby window. He tipped his hat and said, "I'm going to be the loud one now, and they will be the quiet ones." He turned right and continued running.


	33. Episode 33: Domestication

**Episode 33**

**Domestication**

* * *

There was a light rapping at the door through the subtle rattle of heavy rain. The knocks were heavy and urgent.

The Missus set the dishes down in the flat sink bowl and dried her hands on the fresh smelling towels hanging from the cabinet beside her. She looked into her reflection in one of the bowls and straitened her frizzled hair before bobbing it with some pins from the edge of her apron. Who could be knocking at this time?

The door rattled again.

"Just a minute!" she said, straightening her apron. She sighed. Of course the Mister would be home late, as always. He was never on time. "Eight a-clock," he'd say, and then return at ten. The clock on the wall said nine fifteen. At least he was early this time.

In their cozy, clean apartment they found solitude from the busy life outside, as well as a place for their energetic son to rest after he wandered around the city. Esif, however, was late tonight. That was one trait he certainly didn't inherit from his father, neither a trait that he usually possessed. Her motherly instincts panicked, but her trust in Esif assured her that he probably had good reason - perhaps being bandaged again at the doctor's, or in the police station again for stealing apples - for better or for worse.

As she approached the door at the end of the hall, she imagined the Mister standing there, his tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned, or her son, with either the doctor or an officer of the law with a hand on his shoulder.

When she opened it, she came face to face with an interesting change. It was her son alright, but the man - or men to be exact - standing behind him was neither a doctor or a police officer, or at least didn't look like either.

"Good evenin' boys! How can I help you in other ways than lingerie?" she said with a warm smile as the cool gusts of the evening licked her sides.

In the warm glow of the street lamps glistening on their rain-soaked uniforms, the Inquisitors stood with jaws dropped and eyes opened. Under her apron was nothing but underwear. In other words, a heresy of fashion. Was she a worshiper of Slaanesh? The three behind set their hands on the grips of their weapons. The lead Inquisitor, both hands on the boy's shoulder, looked down on the child who looked away. "You better not being lying..." he growled.

"At least the kid's thinking about getting on our good side," Cut-face said to the other two.

"Of course, a prostitution den."

"Exactly. I've been wanting to purge some actual heretics for some time now. Especially those Slaanesh queers."

"Of course, but those on the Fidelis acted quite heretical."

"_Borderline_ heretical."

"Of course, heresy knows no borders or boundaries."

"Neither does Purge-A-Lot." Cut-face passed a grin to the tall one.

The short one elbowed the both of them and nodded to the front.

The Missus placed her hands on her hips. "Lying? My my, what has my little Esif gotten himself into now?" She reached out and rustled his hair.

Esif turned his face toward the light, revealing scratches and bruisers.

The Missus sighed and looked to the Inquisitor. "I'm sorry if he's caused you any trouble. He's just an adventurous young boy, that's all."

"I suppose this means your his mother, or are posing as her," said Purge-A-Lot. Esif shoved him back and leaped to his mother. The three Inquisitors behind him began to draw their weapons, the holster's fastening straps clicking loose. Purge-A-Lot motioned behind his back for them to ease.

"Aw, you seem like such a sweetheart," she said as Esif fell into her arms. She smiled as he squeezed her in embrace and his warm tears touched her cool stomach. "Thanks for bringing him back."

"No problem at all, it's our duty." Purge-A-Lot winked.

"Your duty? That's a strange uniform for a police officer- but where are my manners? Come on in, I'm almost done making supper." She pulled the boy in and with her bare back turned, waved for the four men to come in with her.

Remembering their manners, they looked away from her bare behind that was partially covered by laced panties as they followed her in. The short one closed the door behind them and they stood on the large welcome mat with their hands behind their back and soaked faces facing forward at attention.

After taking off his over-clothes, sat her son down at the table and went to the cupboard to grab some silver ware. With a stack of plates in her hand, she looked over her shoulder and saw only her son sitting at the table in his damp underwear. "Your welcome to come to the table as long as you hang your wet clothes on the rack!" She smiled. They were certainly taking their time. Where they too modest to take off wet clothing? Hopefully they weren't too stiff and prude like some of her usual guests.

The Inquisitors stared at each other, the little confidence they had in their leader dripping off their faces with the rain water. An odd mission had grown even odder. "Purgey, what next?" whispered the short one.

The lead Inquisitor glared at his fellow colleagues. "Quit acting like bashful Acolytes and do as she says!" he hissed in a sizzling whisper. Perhaps he lost confidence in himself, as he too blushed while removing his coat and trousers.

Following their leader's example, they tossed their wet clothes on the large welcome mat, each piece of drenched wear slopping as it landed on the pile. Although the mat's soft material absorbed most of the water, a puddle formed under on the stone tile beneath. The Inquisitors looked at one another.

"Well, shit," said the short one. They knew that first impressions were everything and what was before them, a soggy pile of clothes in a puddle of rain water, was certainly not the way to improve relations and establish trust even at the most basic of levels.

Cut-face, scratching his stubble for a few moments, shrugged. He picked his clothes from the pile and placed them on the clothing rack. He then removed his boots and put them under the rack where the falling drops of rainwater pitter pattered on the inside. "Our boots are waterproof," he said.

The other two stared at him, then their boots, then to Purge-A-Lot.

"Of course, why didn't you think of that?" The tall one said.

"Why didn't you?" Purge-A-Lot replied and followed Cut-face's example. The other two followed him and did likewise.

"Do you boys need any help?" Her cheerful voice rang through the halls with a hint of arousal.

The four felt every muscle in their body tighten. They stood at the front door in their undergarments, soaked in their humiliation from such a sad display of pitiful incompetence. The lead Inquisitor brooded over the sheer awkwardness of it all. The other three began to wonder whether they could continue on like this. There was no open conflict, no spies (for all they knew), and no direct intentional defiance against the Emperor (unless they took the people's disregard for the Emperor, whom the colonists didn't know as they did, seriously), therefore this entire task of winning the colonists over to the Emperor should be easy, especially with such a simple task such as taking off rain-soaked clothes. But it wasn't.

"We're fine, thank you!" Purge-A-Lot replied, his tone wavering as he tried to sound confident about the simple task. He didn't want to sound too cheerful, otherwise he would not seem bold and in control of such a situation, nor did he want to sound so monotone or slightly annoyed which would make him seem to dislike her hospitality and paint himself as an unpleasant person. He knew that the opposite was true; he was the most pleasant person around. These three poor incompetent fellows on the other hand-

"Well don't stand near the door too long, you might catch a cold!" Her tone seemed oddly playful. The lead Inquisitor wondered if he should keep his gun with him just in case this _was _a trap of a devotee of the Chaos God, Slaanesh. But where could he put it? His underwear had no pockets... but he had a natural pocket. He flipped on the safety and tucked his gun in his buttcrack. The other three stared at him, discomfort stretched across their faces.

"Nobody checks the butt," he said. "Not until they've let their guard down."

The four of them looked at their under-dressed appearance and collectively sighed before the other three shoved their own guns up their asses, safety on. They then proceeded to stiffly waddle down the hall, butts clenched so tight that the damp fabric stretched around them popped and snapped with every step.

It wasn't their finest hour.

* * *

A gust of sweet smelling heat blasted her face as she opened the oven.

With a mittened hand she reached down and pulled out the rack with the cake tin on it. She removed the tin and placed it on the counter to cool, set the mitten on a hook, and then closed the oven with her knees. The weak gust of air sent more of the sweet scent into her nostrils. Certainly, this was a strange way to keep a prisoner. Was she a prisoner, she wondered. She felt like the guard mentioned something a while back, but her body as well as her mind was too exhausted to remember.

She heard a knock and turned around. Leaning against the door frame was the lead guard accompanied by twelve other law enforcement officers. Smiling, he said, "Who knew the road to getting Type 2 Diabetes could be so beautiful?"

She rolled her eyes and grinned. "Is there anything else besides cakes you would like me to cook?" Beads of sweat rolled down her face, neck, and legs. Both the head from the oven and from the work were getting to her, and a break was certainly in order if she was to not collapse from heat exhaustion.

The lead guard shook his head with a grin. "Nah. I think this is good enough. We already have a month's supply of cake."

She sighed in relief. "Then anything else?"

"Nope." He said. He kept smiling for a few silent moments.

"Then why are all of you just standing there? I know you want to say something."

The guards looked at one another and chuckled. "Well," said the lead guard. "Are you tired?"

The Inquisitor raised her brow. "Are you teasing me?"

A chorus of laughs came from the guards. "No no," said the lead guard. "I was going to ask if you'd like to go out for the night with us?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, suspicion in her voice. Was he teasing her again? She was exhausted and in no shape to be the maid for a bunch of hungry men.

"Grab a few beers at the liquor lounge downtown."

"You mean a bar?"

"A bar?"

"You don't know what a bar is?"

"No..."

"Nevermind then. Sure, I'll come along," she said. "As long as you have a change of clothes for me, that is."

The guards chuckled again. These people were certainly a suspicious bunch, and letting her guard down with the lead guard she figured wasn't such a good idea. She quickly glanced at the knife rack. They were large, but she could compensate with well-timed throws or with some well placed slashes.. Hopefully they would give her something that could conceal a blade.


	34. Episode 34: Letting It Out

**Episode 34**

**Letting It Out**

* * *

Ptetakh popped down from the ceiling into a holding chamber. Along the walls slanting towards him lay many centipede-like automatons, their eyes flickering as they rested with their backs on standby. Stuck to a few of them were specimens which made up Kophtet's personal stash. However these specimens were not intended for any regular use in the lab, rather they were meant for specialized studies. On one of them was the two halves of a large green alien, the angry one of the two found on the interstellar trash heap.

Ptetakh crawled up the wall to the Sentinel who remained undisturbed. Standby was not sleeping, rather the Sentinels were awake but lost their consciousness in their own inner processes and exotic algorithims. Ptetakh knew that the Sentinel before him knew that he was there. It simply wasn't paying much attention to the presence of its tiny guest.

The little scarab squeaked, leaped, and spun in a circle. The Sentinel's eyes stopped flickering. His head, jittered and popped, and then looked down at Ptetakh who waved with his front feet for the Sentinel to follow him. The Sentinel's motors groaned and whirred as he got on his set of hind legs. Some of the joints squeaked into place with ease, others ground into place, and the Sentinel followed the scarab down the length of the chamber towards a corridor.

* * *

Szazadrekh turned as he heard a knocking on the wall. Behind him stood Nephalut in her bare blue body, the upper half hidden by her usual choice of attire which was her cloak of moist skin - not to be confused with the blue skin that she "wore" underneath. Her hair was braided to the side and her face seemed smooth and relaxed. "And what might we be up to?" She said as she leaned against the wall.

"You're here!" he said, and got off his raised throne. Walking down the steps towards her, he then said, "I wanted to ask, would it be difficult for you to give me a jaw to replace this terrible, mouthless face of mine."

"I always thought that the casual, bland, and superficial look fit your personality."

"As does yours, you funny Cryptek." Szazadrekh let out a hoarse laugh, indicating jest as his face could not.

"I'm serious," said Nephalut. "Now why exactly would you like me to give you a jaw? I know Kophtet gave himself one so that he could hear and feel himself talk."

Szazadrekh sighed in amusement. "I want to smoke some cigars."

"You want to smoke cigars? Why? Do you miss your soot reeds?"

"I do."

"A desire for things of the past... the price of immortality. Me with my gender and you with your cigars." Nepha crossed her arms. A grin of understanding carved its way across her face.

Belakh fell from the ceiling, landed on the Lord's shoulder, and chirped.

"I'll make some few new faces for you," Nephalut said. "I just need a sample of your living metal just to make sure your system doesn't reject a new face. And no Belakh, there's nothing to worry about-"

Belakh hissed and screeched, but Szazadrekh flicked him off before he could finish.

"Oh really now?" said Nephalut.

Szazadrekh put both hands in the air. "It was supposed to be a secret. Don't take it personally."

"I can't blame you for Kophtet's quirks, but I can blame you for a possible contamination hazard by taking out the large ork. If you want to see an ork, especially in one piece, I could always bring mine over."

"Does he know how to puff a cigar?"

"He might. It's worth a try."

"Then bring him in

"Sure thing, Szaza." Nephalut left his presence, her eyes rolling the second she turned her head. "Bad habits, Szaza. Bad habits..." she muttered as she continued down the corridor leading away from the bridge.

"I heard that!" The Lord's voice echoed behind her.

Gretznuk coated the wall with his saliva.

"I'm pretty sure that wall is as disgusted with you as I am," said Phet. The bug laid on his back, legs crossed. "I've counted my legs for who knows how many times and all you've been doing for the past whatever is lick that wall. For sanity's sake! Sniff the floor!"

Gretznuk turned to his small companion. "I've already sniffed the floor and ceiling"

"Did you touch the floor?"

"I am touching the floor."

"With your feet! Try using your hands, the nerve receptors should be better."

"But my feet are more sensitive."

"And my living metal ass is more shiny than the tips of my feetsies. And guess what? Nobody gives a shit! Touch the floor with your fingers!"

"Well why don't you do something, you little ball of sass?"

"I'm processing, and that my dear disappointment, is something."

"Well do something useful for a change like data collection. I'm sure with all those sensors of yours you can gather more information about our current surroundings than I can."

"It certainly doesn't help your case that you've been licking that wall this entire time, as I've already stated."

"Just help me!"

Clapping echoed down the corridor outside the cell.

Gretznuk and Phet turned to the door.

"There she is," said Phet. "There... she... is..."

Gretznuk sighed in both relief and anxiety. He found the feeling to be quite fascinating.

She walked into view behind the door, her face illuminated by the brighter glow inside the cell. "Would you two be interested in a bit of freedom? Limited of course. I'm not going to let you two roam around or leave the ship."

Phet jumped onto Gretznuk's shoulder. "Of course we would!" he said, flailing his foremost legs in the air.

Gretznuk raised a hairless brow and turned to his bug companion.

Phet understood. "But what's the catch?"

Nephalut crossed her arms. "Do you know how to smoke a cigar?"

"A cigar-"

Phet smacked the back of Gretz's head with his tail. "Of course he does!"

Nephalut looked at the bug and grinned. "That's strange... you don't look like a scarab now that you're right in front of me."

"I suppose your disappointed."

"What your dynasty of origin?"

"That question is completely irrelevant as far as I'm concerned, and as far as you should be."

"Mhm. I suppose your going to keep silent." Nephalut looked to the ork.

"He always seemed quite suspicious," said Gretznuk.

"And I have my reasons," said the bug. "However the reason I'm sure the majority here would hold to a high priority in knowing is why exactly are you letting us out of our cell."

"A powerful friend of mine wants to learn how to smoke a cigar, and I agreed to find him a person with experience for lessons."

"You should take advantage of this," Phet whispered into Gretz's ear, his voice barely audible and his tone mirrored the suspicious look he gave the Cryptek.

"You should," she replied.

Phet jumped back. "Do you have any sense of privacy?!"

"Are you aware that I maintain a form of ownership over the two of you? You have no privacy."

"I thought you Nihilakhs valued rights!"

"Nihilakhs are only concerned about Nihilakh rights, when they are concerned about rights. Unfortunately I am not a native Nihilakh and you are definitely not a Nihilakh scarab."

"You racist bitch!"

"Be glad my colleague isn't here." Thinking about her colleague, particularly how irritated he seemed to always be, she could see a similarity in the bug and the ork. They seemed calm and quite intelligent before, but now their aggravation had changed them into a bickering and anxious pair. Something was going on, and she wanted to know what and why. However, that would be for a later time. As for the moment, she had to bring them to Szazadrekh. She reached over and tapped a glyph on the wall and the bladed door separated. "Follow me," she said, and curled her finger in the direction she started to walk.

Phet followed behind Gretz, puffs of steam hissing from his joints. Gretznuk took a deep breath and exhaled in relief. The air still had the morbidly clean smell, but he was outside the cell once more. The farther he was, the less there was of the claustrophobic stress that bound and bent his thoughts. The anxiety lightened, and with less emotional tensity his curiosity returned. The whole experience was interesting. What about that cell could have caused such anxiety, even with company?

Many other questions rushed into his mind with his curiosity. Who was this blue alien? Who was Phet - was he trustworthy or could he be a tool used to manipulate captives by giving them the illusion that someone else was in a similar situation, who could relate on an emotional and mental level, and make escape seem possible? A false sense of hope... what an intriguing idea. To convince a prisoner that freedom was only one successful attempt away to tame them and keep them content with their captivity by repeating those hopes, rewording them and reimagining them every time they failed. What a clever method to contain a curious and free mind.

Gretznuk recalled the bug's sudden change in personality, or what seemed to be a change. At first the bug seemed quite intellectual, able to ponder, seeming possibly wise. Yet as time went in on in captivity, the bug became less rational and more sassy. Then again, so did he, but that didn't eliminate the possibility of the bug gradually dropping the act and revealing his true character.

It all was interesting, and the questions and responding thoughts pouring into his mind increased now that the barrier of stress and anxiety was gone. He felt the floodgates in his mind open. Terror and joy filled him all at once. His freedom from the cell felt so enlightening.

Among the many questions that came to him, one that truly stuck out was about the nature of him educating the blue alien's powerful friend. What was a cigar? Gretz already felt guilty not having the knowledge that he needed... knowledge... what was it- he stopped the thought there. He knew where that thought would go, and right now those ideas weren't worth the effort.

Although curiosity he warmly welcomed to return, he knew that he had to suppress the questions and patterns of thought that brought him nowhere. The only thoughts he would not suppress were those that provided reliable results and answers, or something close.


	35. Episode 35: Coming Showers

**Episode 35**

**Coming Showers**

* * *

The forecast predicted heavy rains.

Captain Cox tightened his safari cap and rolled up his pant legs. Through the crack between tent flaps he saw men and women rushing with wooden pallets and metal plating which some put under their tents. Other workers carried large sacks of heavy duty tent stakes, gravel, wooden posts, and rubber mesh. Passing wheel barrels smelled of moist earth. The geological team said that the ground around the cave entrance was pretty stable as well as the mountain side, but Captain Cox knew that if something could go wrong, it would go wrong. The dirt on which they stood he refused to trust - only the most novice of adventurers had faith in the ground on which they stepped. Thus, he made sure that erosion precautions were taken.

Not only was the camp being refitted for torrential downpours, but the complex itself, particularly the entrance. Cox changed the schedules of the dig teams and the archeologists, cutting their work day short and then sending them out to the local manufacturing town for a surplus of water pumps. He also ordered the engineers to carve the earth in front of the entrance so that water would not flow into the complex and bury weeks of digging in thick mounds of mud and sediment.

He dug through a duffle bag and pulled out a pair of thick, tall boots. Lifting his left leg, he slowly pulled the boot onto his foot. As he wiggled his way in, a question came to mind: what ever happened to that intern? He sent another person that morning to go to the communication trailer in place of the intern.

It wasn't like the intern could have gotten lost. The comlink trailer was a five minute walk across the camp and could be easily recognized by the massive, military grade antennae towering over everything else. Cox hadn't told anyone yet of his concern for the intern, as he was sure a few others had noticed the young man's absence during the morning briefing. He figured that if the intern did somehow find himself down in XBC-68 again, he could last a day or two. After all, the dig teams were notorious for using one of the ancient storage halls as a massive pantry.

He pulled tightened the straps of the boot, and then began to put on the other boot. Outside he heard the thudding of footsteps approaching the tent. He crammed his foot in, tightened the straps, and jolted up. He tied his long hair in a bun and lit a cigar.

The flap door flew open and an intern, his least favorite of the two, stumbled in. "Good late morning sir! Are we ready to go hunting?"

Cox puffed a cloud of smoke that enveloped the interns face. It was thick and sickly yellow as if it were vaporized flem. "Not today, boy. Can you not see that there are preparations to be made for the oncoming storm?"

The intern tried to cover his nose, but the cigar smoke was intense. He smelled it right through his shirt. "So cancel the day's activities?"

"I'm sure I made that quite clear to most of you this morning." Cox puffed another cloud of thick, smoke into the intern's face.

"My apologies, sir," the intern said and backed out with his shirt tucked over his nose and mouth.

The burly Cox reached over for his wide brimmed hat, chuckling to himself as he heard the intern dry heave into a coughing fit outside the tent.

"Oh my..." Cough. "fucking..." Cough. "god!" Cough. Cough. Cough. "Somebody-" Cough. "Get me some-" Cough. "Oxygen!" Cough. Wheeze.

There were a few more hours left before the storm arrived, so he had some time to get things done before "battering down the hatches", like checking on that other intern he sent to the comlink in place of the missing one. He should have been back by now. Cox was not looking forward to reporting the two missing interns. A colleague once reported a missing crew member and lost investors after rumors spread the dig to be a front for the local cult.

He adjusted his hat, rolled up his sleeves, and marched through the tent flaps, only to be stopped by a short bald man in a robe.

"Good afternoon Seeker Demmel. I have full faith that you know of the saying, 'Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Think of him, and he'll be at your doorstep.' How are we today?"

Demmel raised his pale, elongated face to the towering Cox. He spat on the adventurer's boot. "How are we? You ask me as if your disregard for the sacred is a flippant matter, something to be tossed aside and ignored. But I warn you, Cox, one of these days the ancient gods will rise again and flay you like the infidel you are."

"For future reference, if you want to leave a message of a dark and dismal fate, I have an answering machine. If that's all your here for, my good sir, that pardon me as there is important work to attend to this very moment!" Cox turned and started to walk, but the short man's stepped in front of him, stopping him.

"Excuse me, but what do you think you're doing? I by no means mean disrespect, Mister Demmel, but I just told you to use the answering machine if you want to leave me some dark, cryptic enigma to baffle over for the next few weeks."

The short bald man pulled a black orb from his draping sleeves. "We have been seeing horrible things coming this way."

"That's wonderful. But may I also ask if you do remember what I said about your pronoun games. Now if you will excuse me-"

The short man shoved the black orb into Cox's face. "Look and behold! Grandeur and horror! Immensity and depravity! The colossal and the lewd!"

Cox looked into the black orb. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His cigar hit the ground with a hiss.

"Can you not see it? Can you not see the hysteria that will plague the people when this comes? Can you not see the strife and conflict that this will bring? The great controversy that it will spark?!"

Cox rubbed his eyes and looked deeper into the orb. "Mother of god..."

"Now do you see?"

"I do... I do..."

The short man slipped the orb back into his sleeve. "Now what will you do? What will you tell your men?"

Cox straightened himself and cleared his throat. "First I will grab a tissue and blow my nose. A booger that huge no man should witness!" He said with reverence. "Secondly I will start recommending that my men, and even the women, start using honey wax for their hair. I never knew my mustache and 'chops were so... so... soooo..." He gasped, as if he were orgasming. "Breathtaking..."

"This is not a joke! What did you see in the orb?!" The short man's pale face reddened.

Cox shrugged. "My glorious face, of course."

"Did you not see anything else, like the future? The hearts of men everywhere? The destiny of this world?!"

"Nope. I did see a bunch of fingerprints and scratches. I whole heartedly suggest that you take a waxed cloth and polish that thing."

"You dare take what you have seen to be a joke?"

"Did it sound like I was joking? Boogers are terrifying things, and amazing facial hair is awe inspiring. You know, I was feeling quite shit this morning about two missing interns. But now I feel not only inspired, but uplifted. I appreciate your services and offer my thanks. G'day, good Seeker!" Cox tipped his hat and left the short bald man standing in front of the main tent.

Demmel shook his head and looked up. What else could he expect from such a vain man as Captain Cox. He rubbed the orb in his sleeve pocket, and felt the urge to speak his mind to the sky. He closed his eyes, and slipped into his deeper wavelengths. "Something is coming, a presence is near, and ancient longing to be and to be not. Two great forces coming to clash, ancestors and step-ancestors, each willing to take us under their wing. The question is though, how will we be divided, and how red and black must the ground become with blood and ash before one of the opponents claims victory?"

He turned and smelled the air. A strange tingling rushed through his body. Years of empty worship left him and his gathering grasping for signs and wonders to set fire to their faith. Thousands of gallons of blood had been spilt in the night to gain the attention of those whom they worshipped, and although dread filled the mind of Demmel, excitement filled his heart. Excitement from feeling something near. Something was near, and it was not of the ordinary. It was calling out- no. It was screaming for someone to call its name in blood and death. Then he heard it again. That loud humming that he always heard in the monastery. The humming so subtle yet so overwhelming. The humming one could hear if they listened for it. However it did not roll over the mountains as it usually did, but resonate from within.

Demmel looked around him at the workers going about their business. He pitied them for not being able to hear the rumble of the ancient beings, of the machines _that never stop..._

* * *

Azultep rested his ancient behind on a wooden mount his Scyrens had built on Kophtet's lower torso slightly above where his six legs jutted from. Four Scyrens rode with him, standing on the back of Kophtet's lower torso as well.

"I know you have vehicles for this," said Kophtet, the irritation seeping through his calm voice. "And I do not by any means want to disrespect you, but could you not just beam one down?"

Azultep frowned, "Hmm," and farted. "Well, you see my dear Cryptek. Energy is something one should not waste. You have two torsos, one connecting to the larger, wider one where your six legs jutteth forth, may I so dear say my dear oh beloved swell and eternal companion."

The Scyrens cooed with amusement.

"With two torso's I'd imagine you would have twice the energy of any of your companions. I know for a fact you burn less energy than any vehicle of mine over the same distance. Besides, I'd hate to get any of that mud on my oh so glorious and majestic cape." He grinned as his Scyren's cooed once more.

Kophtet looked down at the mud below them. His telescopic legs, elongated, left them high above the swampy floor of this dense jungle. "What an asshole..." he thought. The moment made him cringe on the inside. He did not deserve this treatment, even if it was from some one as "highly respectable" as Azultep. He was an honored Cryptek, and a member royalty by his true nature, separated from his family by misfortune. He loathed everything, despised it all. He wasn't receiving the honor and desire he deserved. He tired of being cast aside as another Cryptek.

"Anyways, Koph. It shouldn't be long now before we get to meet up with Basep. Seems like he found some intruders on some home turf. It should be long, that is, if you go a little faster."

"How far is Basep?"

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh... well..."

"Well?"

"Do you understand what a kilometer is?"

"I've heard of it and have a rough idea of what it's like."

"Good. Because Basep is over two thousand kilometers away."

Kophtet stopped. His upper torso pivoted around, and he glared at Azultep.

Azultep crossed his arms. "We certainly aren't going to get there any faster like this."

"I'm sorry, but did you just say two thousand?"

"Did it sound like I stuttered? Of course I said two thousand, and we're not going to get there any faster just by standing around and staring at each other. If I were you, I'd start legging it over there as the narrow sea between here and there will be quite the bitch to cross, especially with the oncoming weather patterns."

Kophtet's upper torso turned forward and he continued walking once more.

No one seemed to respect him, or even want to respect him the way he ought to be respected. And now someone was intruding on the home world he grew up in, a home world he could not recognize. He was aware of the rage and the vengeance and the raw hatred building within him and knew that he needed somewhere, someplace to vent it out. These intruders would suffer, and if they were human, he would give them no rest through experiments, tests, and trials like none other. No longer would he treat them as sentient beings, for they were careless and arrogant. They were now scraps of flesh to be tested and thrown away, or so he thought. What he really decided they would be was something he denied as it seemed to feral for his tastes and too perverse, something he'd expect Nephalut to do. Any human he'd come across would he decided subconsciously would be his toy upon which he could release all his anger.


	36. Episode 36: A Guilty Thirst

**Episode 36:**

**A Guilty Thirst**

* * *

The rain rattled on the deck awning.

Drops streaked down the window, glistening like drops of honey from the incandescent glow within the lounge, contrasting the dim blue overcast. Couch's stretching down the length of the table creaked from the number of butts they carried. The low tables were covered in snacks, deserts, and would be rather empty if I didn't have an array of hard drinks. Some fizzed with cream, others blazed with flames, and in a few little dancing florescent squiggly lines rattled against the glass - those things being tiny fish.

The Inquisitor looked at her drink and watched the little creatures swim in the liquor. "How are they alive?"

"They won't be," said the lead guard. "Not in a few hours. They're drowning, and they still think they're in water. That and if you drink the cocktail."

The Inquisitor looked at the lead guard's face. He seemed to be saying something else. "I suppose this is metaphorical."

He chuckled. "If I were teasing you, yes. But we both know what happens when I try to tease you." He cleared his throat. "The name's Raphael, and these three fine men are Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Donatello."

"You can call me Madonna," the Inquisitor replied.

"We can call you? Why not your real name?"

"Are those your real names?"

"Of course they are," said Raphael. "Have I ever lied to you?"

"Not yet," she grinned.

Raphael noted the increased suspicion beneath the thin layer of jest. He had hoped she would trust him and the others more. She did make his dull job something to look forward to in the morning, but if her mistrust grew it would certainly ruin the growth of their relationship. What could be the cause of her suspicion? "Don't take this offensively, but why the hell are you so suspicious all of a sudden? It's not like we're back in the kitchen watching you bake."

"Well, you see... Back in the kitchen I was being a bit naive. Maybe its the density of the air, the beautiful interior decor, or the surprise of not bein grim dark dungeonom, that made me optimistic for a bit. Too optimistic, I'm beginning to think."

"So you're saying that your having second thoughts about what you initially thought about us?"

"I was too drunk on optimism. I should've been more skeptical around you guys, a little more cautious and less... mesmerized. Especially with the teasing..." She looked down and rolled the drink in her glass, while her tone remained positive and hid her discomfort as the slight intoxication replayed the past few days.

Raphael, taking the cue that she wasn't in the most confident or comfortable of moods, decided to change the direction of the conversation. "So who were those friend's of yours who were with you when we met? And what is this Inquisition?"

"How many hours do I have?"

"To explain? As many as you need-"

The doors burst open and a guard stumbled through, catching the attention of everyone in the lounge. He collected himself and looked around, but couldn't find the man he was looking for. "Hey chief! We've spotted a UFO!" Hushed gasps burst amongst the crowd.

"Pardon me." Raphael scooched between the Inquisitor and Donatello's knees, and the table's edge. He pushed his way through the standing crowd toward the reception area. "Pardon me. Coming through. Out of the way. Sorry. Excuse me. Coming through. Move please." Out of the crowd Raphael emerged and stood before the guard in front of him. "Francis, hey buddy! Keep it down a bit and get over here."

Back at the table the six drank, ate, and listened.

"And where was it heading?" Raphael asked.

"It was heading to the tenth city," Francis said.

"Ah." Raphael turned to the Inquisitor. "Madonna?"

The Inquisitor gave him a perplexed look for a moment, and then it came across to her. "I have nothing to do nor do I know any more than the rest of you do about the shuttle. And it's not like I can contact them through comms as signals on this planet, other than those that you use based off Xeno technology, are scrambled during a broadcast."

"Couldn't we just send them a message?" Francis asked.

"She just said they have different communication systems than we do, in other words we can't receive or send them a message, nor can they." Raphael took a sip of the Aurora Bora cocktail, the glowing blue squiggle fish lighting up the inside of his mouth, making his cheek's glow. "Which explains why none of us in the fifth city had a clue about our extraterrestrial hitchhikers."

"Should we investigate?" Francis said.

"Nah. The tenth city's business is the tenth city's business. Unless it's a full scale invasion or something else big we have no business over there. As I remember, call me out if I'm wrong, but Clause Delta Thirty Six of the inter-codes forbids any involvement of non-local law enforcement operating in any community unless a state of emergency has been declared. I'm pretty sure that's the first of the Clauses they should've taught you."

"Well it could be major."

"And it's probably not. If we start meddling with another city's business we might just make something major out of something minor. If it's not our business, it's not our business."

Francis opened his mouth.

"I'm sure they have enough firepower if it's a major threat," said Raphael. "Now shut up and eat, or leave the table. Your choice."

Francis stood up and left the group.

Raphael sighed while Donatello, Michelangelo, and Leonardo rolled their eyes.

"Some of these guys take their jobs so seriously I swear I want to kill myself," said Raphael.

"Devotion is admirable," replied Madonna. "But I know how you feel, or at least I knew before being 'imprisoned'."

"Novices are the ones who think that being one of us makes them some sort of big hero. Fortunately, most of them drop the attitude by the third or fourth year, which is when your realize law enforcement isn't as esteemed of a duty as some would think."

"Because of menial tasks like landing fees and what not?" Madonna grinned.

The three other guards laughed. Raphael returned the grin. "That's actually the most exciting part of it."

"Oh," said Madonna. Her face lit.

"So how about that Inquisition and your friends?" said Donatello.

"Ah, the Inquisition..."

"What's it about?" said Michelangelo.

"Protecting mankind from heresy-" She sipped from her glass. "And from Xenos."

"Xenos? You mean alien species?" said Leonardo.

"Mhm." She reached over for the biscuit bowl.

"And heresy?" said Michelangelo as he pushed the bowl toward her. "Like actions or ideas against the doctrine of a religious state?"

"Yes." She broke a biscuit and began to butter it.

"And I suppose Mr. Pissy-Pants is the head of said organization?" said Raphael.

"He's just a member, like the rest of my party."

"Ah, but he's in charge. Is it because of a higher rank-"

"No, he was elected."

"By whom?"

"The other five of us."

"No offense, but it seems for being members of an organization who's duty is to protect all of humanity from the most widespread of threats the five of you certainly lacked some sense in the leadership department."

"We hoped he would become better with more experience, but the opposite happened."

Raphael chuckled. "Leaders rarely become better once you put them in power. A mentor once told me, 'Leaders are like fruits of a tree. From the moment you pick one they start rotting. Let the ripe and good ones sit around for a while, and they'll eventually rot as well, some faster than others.' Certainly words to live by."

"Apparently we picked one that was already rotting, and now I have to live with the regret of picking someone as bloodthirsty as him. I suppose the guilt is what pushed me to turn myself in and be too trusting with all of you. Maybe I just needed a break, but that would be heresy against the Emperor of Mankind."

Raphael listened, his chin resting on his knuckles. "Then why not abandon this 'Emperor of Mankind' if your loyalty burdens your conscience so much?"

"I love my Emperor, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I want to take a break from this constant purging, this constant persecution. We killed our own people to save them, like some twisted bunch of suitors killing their lovers to preserve some virgin purity." She slumped and buried her face within her palms. "This is heresy, and I hate thinking about my duty this way. It feels awkward and stupid. I ought to shoot myself-"

"Shoot yourself? For thinking on your own? Is this your doctrine-induced guilt talking or the liquor?"

"I don't know. Can we change subject? I don't feel comfortable talking about this."

"If it'll make you happier, sure," said Raphael, pouring himself another glass that glistened in the warm glow of the room. The weather outside had grown worse, and he was painfully aware that his attempts at comforting his guest were falling flat before his face.


	37. Episode 37: Feral Men, No Bondage

**Episode 37:**

**Feral Men, No Bondage**

* * *

The Lord Captain Caius Augustus stumbled through the woods, clutching a knife close to his chest. The leaves behind him crunched under the boots of the midshipman, whose uniform was in tatters; a torn bit of his sleeve was wrapped around his head. Blood darkened the front of the bandage. His face was turning to a light brown as the blood dried. His right arm swayed dumb and numb as he limped behind the Lord Captain.

A light thud behind caught Caius' attention. He glanced behind him at the ground. A large bloody chunk of shrapnel rested in the orange-brown needles covering the forest floor. Wind whistled through the trees and tickled the inside of the new gap in the back of his arm, creating a sudden pain. He gritted his teeth and collapsed against a nearby tree. "Damn them... Damn them to hell!"

The loyal midshipman stopped in front of Caius and grabbed his sleeve.

"No, no... You need not to..."

"Do you want to die of blood loss, sir?" The midshipman looked at the Lord Captain. Through the suffering in the subordinates' eyes, the Lord Captain could see frustration.

"If you insist..." the Lord Captain groaned as he turned around and shoved his face into the tree's hole. He bit out a chunk of bark from the hole's bottom edge. It splintered between his teeth as the midshipman pulled the wounded arm back, held it, and wrapped it in the make-do bandage.

"This is going to burn for a while, may I remind you," he said as he tightened the blood soaked wrapping, "but you'll live. Hopefully without infection, sir."

"Sounds like were going to have to find some shelter."

"Yes, sir. Or find some travelers who will take us in."

"Then I guess we better get out of these uniforms when we can find another change of clothes, because we stand out far worse than a Daemon standing before the Emperor's Divine Glory. The last thing we need to do is scare the locals." The Lord Captain finished with a tone of hopelessness, conveying some bad vibes.

His voice was breathy. "Good idea, sir." The midshipman tried to remain positive, or at least look the part, as his tone still relayed suppressed frustration and post-traumatic anxiety.

The two continued their march through the forest, climbing up and falling down the uneven terrain. Some of the rocks were still wet from the recent rain, and the wet leaves might as well have been a thick coating of oil. Their march was long, hard, and dull. Alone, without the morale boost of living companions, the two found their trek miserable. The rations they stuffed in their pockets were now crumbs, cheese cubes, and meat strings, soggy and peppered with stubborn lint that tasted of dried blood, sweat, and mud. They did not trust the rainwater. They did not trust the stream water. They did not trust the spring water. Knowing the grim darkness of reality, they knew that even the kindest of nature's invitations were like Slaaneshian whores. They satisfied completely, and then you died.

* * *

Days past, maybe weeks. It was hard to tell, and eventually impossible. The sun rose and set, the clouds passed overhead, and the men's frames became thinner and thinner, and thinner than thinner. Their boots cracked and crumbled from continuous wear, their feet and palms grew molds and sores, and their rough pale skin tanned and leathered. Their jackets tore into the bandages they kept changing and tossing aside - and covered the dreadful scars and grooves in the flesh that the wounds left behind.

Deprived of moderate hygiene, nutrition, and the comforts they had once taken for granted, they learned to adapt.

But eventually they became too weak to hunt even the smallest of critters, and too spent to search for good berries and flowers that would not force them to vomit the day's meal back on the ground. They were sick of lapping up their own vomit to not starve to death.

Bark, leaves, and the stems of young sapplings were hard on their teeth and made them sick - the same went for most of the forest's flora and their products.

They had tried drinking their own urine and feces, but the recycled excrement turned sour after two weeks and made them regurgitate it back up. Vomited piss and shit was beyond not-appetizing, beyond nightmares.

They thought of drinking their own blood as their saliva lost all moisture and became a white mucus, but their skin was too leathery and they were too weak to cut it with their nails.

Seclusion and malnutrition had taken its tool...

What emerged from the forest one sunny morning was not the same pair of men who entered.

* * *

In the field they saw the grain swaying in the breeze, the appetizing grain. The illness they felt throughout their body vanished and enough strength returned to them to bolted into the field. It felt like a marathon, even though when viewed from a distance it was obvious that the former Lord Captain was limping and the former midshipman was crawling beast-like.

They shoved wheat and tear into their mouths. It wasn't the most satisfying of food, but they recognized it for what it was. Not all of their humanity had been beaten out of them by nature.

They ate their way through the wheat field. Some of their teeth had become brittle, and they spit out broken molars, incisors, and the like as they chewed their way through. Their soft gums bled as they mashed the grain as fast as they could. They wanted the good stuff to be inside them, and fast. They wanted it to fill their stomach to the brim. They wanted their strength back. It wasn't long before they came upon a road at the edge.

The former midshipman looked across the gravel path to a greener field filled with pig-like livestock that squealed, oinked, and farted their way around one another. Through his hollow orbs that ravenously consumed the light coming into them, he saw the walking chubby sausages and he longed for the living flesh. The happily walking tubs of gluttony were tasty, meaty, fatty meals waiting to satisfy his hunger.

On his fours, he turned to the former Lord Captain who stood, eyes still on the stalks in his hands. The more human of the two struggled to pull apart the stalks of wheat with withered fingers, trying to maintain whatever dignity he had left.

"Meat..." the midshipman said, and nodded to the livestock.

The former Lord Captain shook his head as he stuffed more wheat into his mouth. Between each mouthful, he sucked the moisture out of the few weeds he had gathered into his other hand..

"MEAT!" the former midshipman growled.

The former Lord Captain stopped mid-chew and looked at the herd, and then the large building rising in the midst the center of the bounty. Looking back at the midshipman, he shook his head and focused once more on the stubborn, dry stalks of wheat.

The former midshipman hissed at his companion and scurried across the road. He leaped over the low wooden fence and scrambled for the herd in front of. The livestock squealed in horror at the grey crawling thing charging toward them. They scattered into the brush and bushes. Some bashed into the fence. Others bumped into tools and sacks. Everything not bound to the earth was knocked over or trampled.

The chaos broke down the other fences and pens, letting out kinds of livestock. The former midshipman chased after those closest to him. He joined in the chorus of the feral ruckus that echoed through the grazing grounds.

Faint lights flickered on in the windows of nearby monolithic structure. Voices yelled inside. Moments later, one of the many garage doors rolled up and out charged a mob of tired yet excited farmers, armed and ready to kill. The frustration of waking up early showed through their bloodshot eyes and the bulging veins on their hands. One of them let off a warning shot, scattering the herds into the fields. The former midshipman found himself exposed in a patch of low cut grass.

What the farmers saw was not a feral man, but some mutant from the inner city, and not the respectable kind. This was no man, as his light brownish-grey skin clung to his bones like a wet rag on a wooden dowel. His eyes were black, and the skin around them was reddish-black. One of his ears was missing, leaving a hole in the side of his skull. His teeth were worn down to small daggers and rounded stubs, and his head and brows were hairless. The remaining shreds of cloth attached to his body dangled, soaked in brown fluids. Whatever this thing was, it didn't deserve to wander the land of the living - never mind the farm.

"In the name of the living gods, what the FUCK is that?"

"Dunno, Kur. Dunno othur thahn i'taint hewmen."

"Well gawd-damn, I knew I should'a brought out the flameblower!"

"Are we going to stand here all day, or are we going to kill this sonofabitch before it kills something?"

The farmers looked to each other. They were speechless at the sight. It was like something from the Saturday night radio horror dramas. "The Wheat Demon" "The Crop Gremlin" "The Howler of the Corn"

There was fear in them, but it was overwhelmed by the excitement. Here was the something they could tell around the campfire for years to come. The best part, besides the monster itself, was that they could all tell the same story. It was just another spooky tale if one guy told it, but if several tell the tale, then it became a local legend.

"Denoyt, grab the flamethrower and six gallons of gasoline. The thing doesn't deserve the luxury of rotting on or in the ground... Hell, it's gonna spoil the soil! We're gonna kill it, then burn the body, and then roast the earth where it died."

"Aye, Kur. Aye."

The thing turned its head to the group of men who were spreading out in a line. One of the farmers ran out of its field of view while the others worked to keep its attention.

"Alright boys, don't get too close. We need this firing line to work, okay? Got your sights on it?"

"Aye!" the other farmers cheered in unison.

The thing saw the flesh of their arms and faces. It was healthy, juicy, and soft. It could see the vessels pulse under the flesh. It orientated its body towards them and lowered itself to charge.

"Get in in your sights!"

"Aye!"

The thing growled and sputtered from the depths of its throat like a crude diesel engine.

"Aim!"

"Aye!"

The thing hissed and dug its fingers and the toes sticking out from the boot into the moist soil and started swaying forward and back, getting into the momentum for the leap. It hissed and green flem spewed from its gums and drizzled off its shriveled lips.

The farmer's guns cocked and clicked.

"FIRE!"

"AYE!"


	38. Episode 38: Pile Driving

**Episode 38**

**Pile Driving**

* * *

Crew members rushed down the corridor, weapons in hand, aimed and ready too kill. Their thundering feet shook the metal under their feet, and their chanting, "Kill the false Inquisitor! Down with the false Inquisitor! Down with his heresy!" echoed through the walls and ceiling. In the ventilation above, the Quiet One watched the mob search for his trail. Fortunately for him, he left one behind.

"Foot prints! They lead out of that oil puddle!" said one.

They stormed forward. The man leading the charge felt like he stumbled on something, but when he looked down he saw nothing but his feet. He shrugged and fixed his boot. Darn laces.

Down the hallway came a loud clinging followed by a chorus of clanging, then the sound of small metal objects rolling behind them. The group turned and saw grenades roll to a halt, centimeters away from their feet.

The Inquisitor stepped away from the vent grating as moments later a wall of fire engulfed the corridor below followed by the tortured screams of the crewmen.

In a chamber not too far off the midshipman leading the Inquisitor-hunt heard the combustion and suffering echo through the ventilation. "What in the Emperor's name-"

A crewman burst in to the room smelling of barbecue. "Sir, Delta is dead!"

"What? How?!"

"They fell into a trap!"

"Damn Inquisitor! He's making us look like idiots!" The midshipman withdrew his saber and looked to a group of well armed men standing in the corner. "Alpha, see if you can get to the bridge by heading through the main maintenance level. Charlie, go through the upper decks. Bravo and Epsilon, flank along the side sections of the ship. We are not going to let him hold us hostage in our home! Am I clear?!"

"Yessir!" They all said.

"Alright, move out! Foxtrot and Gamma, stay with me. I need those flamethrowers ready. I have a feeling that our little bastard is close."

* * *

Alpha kept their guns raised and torches aimed in every direction. There was no way in hell that the heretical Inquisitor would get past them without being riddled with bullet wounds.

The corridors they maneuvered their way through were filled with crates, containers, and all manner of items that had been left during the evacuation and the onboard fight that ensued as the Lord Captain and his crew fought their way off the _Prime Fidelis._ But their fate was a failed fate, as several crew members loyal to the rebelling midshipman followed the escapees in other craft and shot down all but one. The one that got away, they were sure, contained only a handful of crew loyal to the Lord Captain. The Lord Captain himself was surely dead.

The dim lighting made their claustrophobic conditions a bit better, as they had some sense of their surroundings outside the torch beams. There had been no movement yet, no disturbance in the area around them. Even still, they kept up their guard. The Quiet One had been known for being quite sly and suspicious. The shadows were certainly a haven for a wanted "heretic" such as him.

Ahead was the entrance to a lift and next to it stairs. They could get down to maintenance the long way by following some of the tunnels that wove in between rooms, chambers, and the utilities. Not only were they more cramped than the corridor Alpha currently was in, they were darker the deeper they went, exhausting in length, and the steps at some tunnel intervals quite slippery from the moisture coming from the perspiration and steam of the pipes making the walls, floor, and ceiling of the tunnel. The detour was a deathtrap waiting to happen, and that both parties knew very well.

It was no surprise that Alpha took the easy way down, a way that could not only take them to their destination in record time but, under the control of a mischievous hand, to their graves as well.

The team divided, half went on the lift, the other down the stairs. It would take a little more effort to kill all of them, but time and resources were on his side nonetheless. There was one of him, and the less of them there were the more air, food, and supplies would be available. If they killed him, it wouldn't help their situation at all. They already chose their death sentence when they decided to stay on the ship. How they would die was an entirely different matter.

Killing the team in the lift was easy. All the Inquisitor needed to do was hop on the descending car, disable the breaks, climb back up the shaft, and cut off the power. Down the car went, screaming into a free fall as it plummeted into a dark abyss. Moments later the bottom of the abyss was consumed in a great fireball that shook the entire shaft.

Climbing down the stairs, the remaining half of Alpha heard the explosion. They slowed their descent with caution, and their slow footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell. Although they thought slowing down increased their chances of survival, it did quite the opposite: it gave the Inquisitor more time for mischief.

Explosives and weapons were abundant on the lower level for reasons unknown. It didn't make any sense why they would be, as even when fully crewed the ratio of munitions to men was ridiculously high. Thus it wasn't difficult for the Inquisitor to re-arm himself with Melta-bombs and be back before the makeshift task force could make any considerable progress. When collapsing a stairwell, typically one put a bomb somewhere below the target and one some place above. But the Inquisitor didn't have the luxury of being able to race to the bottom and back to the top even when his prey were moving at such a cautious pace. Yet physics was on his side.

Back on the level where Alpha squad entered the lift and the stairwell, the Inquisitor popped down from the ventilation. He adjusted his wide brimmed hat, spread his cloak, and entered the stairwell with Melta-bombs in both hands and one on his belt. The maintenance level in this ship was a few levels up from the bottom, but still a long way down.

Placing the other two bombs on his belt, The Inquisitor jumped off the stairs and clung to the handrail, and using the handrails dropped down three levels and planted a Melta-bomb, and then leaped and grasped his way up twelve levels and planted another Melta-bomb before exiting the stairwell. After recollecting his stamina, he detonated the bombs.

In a blinding flash, the flights of stairs between the two points melted from the entire staircase as well as from the wall. The severed section fell, crunching and clanging as it hit the lower flights, one by one. The Inquisitor listened for the screams. It took a while, but soon enough the surviving half of the Alpha squad cried in terror and in utter pain as the falling flights crushed them and sandwiched them between twisted hot metal.

Even with the screams of death, the Inquisitor needed to make sure there were no survivors - no breathing man pinned down, no amputee who got away, no lucky dodger, and so on. He pulled the pins and threw down some grenades, waited a few seconds, and threw in another Melta-bomb after it. The consecutive blasts and orange glow from the bottom of the shaft assured him of their deaths.

One squad down, four more to go.

* * *

Szazadrekh stared at the cigar with intensity. Such a simple device, yet so pleasuring and enticing. It stole his attention, his desire, his want. Wants... needs... what was the difference when something so simple could make it all seem right again. Maybe the immortality was driving him insane. Maybe he'd end up like Nephalut, wearing another's skin. To truly think, as an ancient Necrontyr Cryptek had once said, is to realize that sanity and insanity are the same thing. That polar and non-polar opposites are at some level the same thing. That madness is insight in a particular perspective. And to talk to one's inner self is to talk to everyone and anyone, and no one. The pinnacle of deep thought, after all, is to see the plurality through the singularity. For the above to be the below, and the below to be the above.

Immortality gives an infinite time for one to think, and when one's mental capacity has been liberated from a form of flesh and chemistry into a form of shifting energies and internal mechanisms, the mind itself can delve into levels unimaginable. Unthinkable to the organic mind. And it is when one comes to understand life, the universe, everything, and numerical wonder of forty-two, perhaps that is when they loose a sense of themselves as an individual and embrace the inevitability of the nature of the pulsing existence - from states of plurality to singularity, and back to plurality - that is reality. In other words, they realize the self-awareness, the self-distancing the universe does through lifeforms, and how once having seen itself in many bodies it returns to its singular self. That is most likely the reason why many Necrons lose a sense of who they are. Their souls have not decayed or gone away, rather they have reached a oneness with the universe and understand their role and place, and cannot help themselves to the orgasmic pleasure that comes with following the orderly chaos of all things - the eternal machine _that never stops_.

Szazadrekh looked beyond the cigar into the void that is between the reality of the mind and the reality of existence, and the void looked back at him with three sets of eyes.

"You really are into that old habit, aren't you?"

He shook his head and his green eyes flickered. "Nephalut, it's not what you're thinking..."

"Mhm. I've seen that look on ten thousand faces. You're beginning to lose it, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not!" Maybe he was. The thought scared him. He had so much more to do with his immortality! If only he could die and not face the dreadful fate of losing one's self-awareness. "Damn it all..."

"Relax Szaza. I promise that if you end up like Azultep I'll turn this fleet into your personal nursing home and find a cozy corner in the galaxy for you to live out the rest of your crazy days in."

"Go kill yourself, Cryptek."

Nephalut chuckled. "Anyways, here's the ork you wanted and our little pest..."

"Pest? Goodness, am I that awful?"

"Yes." Everyone else said in stunning unison.


	39. Episode 39: Fluff 'n Puff

_**(Hello Everyone! I'm back from my hiatus. I apologize for lack of communication as I did not know how busy life would get and how long it would be before I'd return. I've updated my profile with new info; its not much, but it is of interest for any fans of the series.)**_

**Episode 39**

**Fluff 'n Puff**

* * *

Szazadrekh looked at the small ork with disappointment. "Nephalut, both you and Kophtet know me for my lack of bias."

"Or your claim of a lack-"

"Nevertheless, I would've preferred a green thing to be a little larger. I'm not saying size has to do with intelligence, but this young one seems rather inexperienced."

"I can assure you that he has plenty of experience," Phet said.

"I would've asked for your opinion if I wanted it." Szazadrekh looked back at the ork. "As I was saying he doesn't look like he knows anything useful other than how to be small and weird for his kind."

"But the situation called for it."

"It did not."

"It did indeed."

"Not as I recall."

"Then you obviously were not paying any attention."

"I think you should back down a bit," said Gretznuk.

"Fine," said Phet. He wiggled down and popped on top of Gretz's head. "I'll be up here if you need assistance." The glow in his eyes dimmed and fluttered as the little machine began snoring. Snoring loud.

"Mhm!"

Phet stopped snoring.

"You want me to get rid of that parasite for you?" Szazadrekh asked.

"Not really," said Gretz. "He does keep me company and is quite helpful in passing the time."

"Sure... Now tell me, how do you smoke one of these?"

A bunch of things crashed behind the door to the backs of Gretz and Nephalut. It opened, and in came Ptetakh and the Sentinel with the two halves of the large ork.

"Dear me," said Gretznuk. "That seems rather painful."

"Not with a steady supply of numbing oils," said Nephalut. She walked over but stopped when she noticed something was missing. Squinting, she leaned in and sniffed. The sensitivity of her nostrils weren't the only surprise. "If the oils were actually flowing into him. Ptetakh, send him to the lab and set him up for a bath in numbing oil. I want the body soaked with them and increase the blood inflow. Also sew back the damaged intestines and re-establish neural activity. Hopefully the preservative oils have kept the neurological structure intact. And make sure to prepare a replacement spinal cord incase his has been destroyed as it seems the dividing cut was careless."

Ptetakh squeaked and chirped before sending off his large panoplielical friend to the laboratory. Once they were gone, Nephalut turned to Szazadrekh. "This is what we get for giving Kophtet extended permissions."

"Are you saying I ought to revoke some of them?" said Szazadrekh.

"I'm simply saying you should give him my permissions, and his permissions to me. I've been more responsible-"

"But you've stolen his specimens-"

"Borrowed his specimens, and gained plenty of information from my studies, more than he ever has with one and in a fraction of the time." Szazadrekh, when overwhelmed by worries, liked to browse the Crypteks' reports from time to time, behind their backs, most of the time. Nephalut's words didn't come as a surprise to him at all. He had a hunch she knew he was browsing through her information collective. Then there was those overly personal notes she started sneaking in, followed by her giving him random winks, grins, and giggles. Nephalut, the Cryptek was hard not to like.

Szazadrekh looked at her with mistrust though. Who did he like more was the dilemma that troubled him. He took his position as Lord with some slack, but he maintained a sense of responsibility. He indeed profited by showing no significant favoritism to either of the Crypteks. But that was easier said than done. With recent friction between the two, he was concerned that either Cryptek would think he was on a side. He had to maintain some distance from each, but he couldn't help but lean a little toward Kophtet as of recent. With this realization in mind, he decided it was time to balance the scales before things go out of hand.

"Belakh, swap permissions for Nephalut and Kophtet-"

"But not the room permissions," said Nephalut.

"And not the room permissions-"

"Except me being able to access all of his rooms," said Nephalut.

Szazadrekh cleared his throat. "Cryptek, if you want to give your desires in full detail, feel free to do the talking with Belakh yourself. Meanwhile, I'll be having a date with our little green friend..." He rose from his seat and began descending the steps. "You have my permission to place your butt where mine has been."

Nephalut grabbed his shoulder.

"Nephalut... I assure you I have bathed."

"You're going to smoke without a jaw?" She said, lifting his chin with a finger.

He pushed her hand aside. "Well, while your making my new jaw I'll be working on my form. I'm sure it's become quite rusty over the past millennia."

"Body Sample?"

Szazadrekh plucked off the tip of his pinky and put it in her hands. "Don't take too long."

"I'm not Kophtet."

Szazadrekh grabbed the ork's arm and dragged him out of the room. Gretz's toenail-less feet hissed as he was dragged away. He looked back at the blue alien as a small child looks endearingly to a motherly figure as he is dragged away to daycare. His gaze was that of terror and worry. Where was he being taken? Why did Mr Big-Spooky-Skelington call it a "date"? Why couldn't they stay with Nephalut? And the most important question that came to Gretznuk's mind: how would he teach this un-living monster how to puff a cigar? Even in the deepest of recesses within his mind he could not find any natural instinct that dictated how one would smoke a cigar. His imagination provided a bunch of ideas, but which was the right one? He didn't want to be called out for being a phony - who knows what Lord Spook had in store for liars, surely something horrible - or have Nephalut be accused likewise. It was apparent that this Lord had some idea how to smoke, thus making it more reasonable that he be the authority on how to smoke and not Gretznuk. Maybe Phet could help, and if he were, the aid would have to be secret. What the ork needed now was Phet to hook himself back into his mind with that needle tail and communicate "telepathically" as he did when they first met.

* * *

The men and women in the shrine hidden in the Eldritch Swamps went about their daily worship of the Lords of the Tomb. The shrine was no ordinary shrine on this world, as it was the only shrine dedicated to the Lords of the Tomb, and therefore was complex and immense in structure. It was built upon the thick network of branches growing from ancient trees fused with a metallic mineral mysterious to them. It was like none other. It acted organic, yet was more rigid and resilient than any material known on the planet. Not only did its nature make it hard to harvest without causing ecological damage, but even yet it was harder to mold. When they tried to make it fit a mold, pound it into a shape, or use it to create an alloy, it would eventually return into its original and organic form.

The grand shrine was also built around a mysterious complex of pyramids who, like most archeological sites, had complexes filled with many objects containing strange glyphs. Blood sacrifices were not uncommon, yet no matter how many more kiloliters of blood they spilt into great vats the secrets of the Lords of the Tomb remained buried... many non-followers thought the bloodthirsty cult would never find the secrets of this ancient empire, even if the archeological digs in other places revealed knowledge of this ancient people.

Of course, some secrets can't remain hidden forever, even if their original holders have been long gone.

And the reveal of secrets is inevitable if the original holders plan to make a return...


	40. Episode 40: The Coming

**(Yes, it is official, this fanfic is still alive. It's just that I took my time on this way. Maybe a bit too much time.)**

**Episode 40**

**The Coming**

* * *

A frog croaked on his lily pad.

The water rippled with tiny insects going about their daily routines, oblivious to the bigger world around them. To them it was another morning to find their breakfasts, wander the vast wetlands water, climb the ancient tall trees who cut the clouds above, and avoid predators above and bellow the water.

There were many big things out there, many big things that could devour a water-skipper. There was also the threat of something big stepping in the water, making big waves that could destroy the eggs clustered near clumps of roots reaching upward. To live life this small and this contained was no grand world of wonder, rather it was a daily hell where the lucky and clever survived. If it were not for the frequent breeding seasons and mass reproduction, there would be no water-skippers.

Can an insect hear? At first glance, its hard to notice something like that of an ear on them. Surely they must feel the vibrations in the ground or the soft ripples on the water's surface. Fortunately most of them do. Many chirp to one another, sharing the morning gossip about algae and how Skippy Junior was nearly killed when he passed that funny looking rock - pebble lizards are nothing but assholes, big and annoying.

"So I was telling Marla that yes, that leaf did make her look fat," one said.

"Mhm," said the other, rubbing her legs against the tense surface of the water by the lofty reeds.

"Are you even listening?" the one said, a bit of half-eaten algae held close to her mouth.

"Mhm."

The first one looked at her half-eaten algae for a moment, and then took a big nibble.

"So, did you hear Aunt Beggi, the milf you are infamous for passionately loathing, is coming for a three month visit?"

"That's lovely."

"They say she got bigger, like, bigger than you. And you know how the men like their ladies big..."

"Mhm."

The one water-skipper crammed the remaining algae in her hands into her mandibles. Of course, Meke would pay no attention to anything Fa said. Shame Fa got herself stuck with Meke once again. Poor Meke had no friends, she had no interest, and she was awfully lonely. Sometimes Fa made the conscious decision to stick with Meke, other times she simply found herself stuck with the apathetic young skipper too lost in her own world of emptiness to care.

Fa moved over to Meke, who still rubbed her legs against the cool surface of the water, lounging on the edge of a blade of grass that brushed against several reed stalks. The top of the grass was warmed by the sun, and the cool water made the seating all the more ideal.

A large fly zipped past their heads. Fa opened her mouth to chirp to him, but he was already gone. "The living-stone is moving!" What? Living-stone grows in the trunks of swamp trees - it doesn't move. How very strange. Then again, he was known to see a lot of things after sipping on lily-nectar.

A few moments later a bunch of water-skippers zoomed by hushed in a fearful silence.

Then group of bugs flew past them. It was rather odd, as at this time of day traffic on the waters was usually lazy. Was there a predator coming?

Then there was an interesting smell in the air, reminding Fa of the time she was lost and dragged out to the big waters where the ripples were as tall as the trees. The strange smell had a saltiness to it, the same saltiness Fa witnessed in the big waters.

The birds flew overhead toward the same direction the other water life was going, as did the toads, the salamanders, the frogs, the pebble lizards, and the cacachita chirpers. Did all these predators, even the occasional snake, interrupt their daily lives to race after their prey in one great effort? Was food that scarce?

It couldn't be, as Fa and many other insects knew, there were enough prey to be eaten, and there would never be a shortage of prey; the predators that lived in this dreadful ecosystem, where food was faster and the best hunting season short, were few in number. It was too early for hunting season to begin, of course there was always the few that cheated. Still, when Fa accounted for their numbers and the fear on their faces, she more reasons to realize something wasn't right here.

Over the water came a loud crackling, as if De was chomping loudly once more. But Fa saw him race by a few moments ago.

After the crackling came a loud groan, the loudest Fa had ever heard. Even the water vibrated. Then she heard the rush of water. Looking in the direction, she saw a large wave coming over to Meke and her.

She grabbed Meke and slid into a thicket of roots under one of the big plants. The water crashed against the outside with a deafening roar. Fa looked down at Meke. She was shaking, they both were. What was happening?

Fa skidded over to where they entered. The hole was drenched, and when she looked outside she saw one of the big plants laying in the water, a big healthy plant she saw standing firm and straight moments before. A tree had fallen, a tree that she grew up around, based her life around. She could feel a small fragment of that tiny heart of hers wither.

"Beggi got BIG..." Meke said, peeping over Fa's shoulders.

The two water-skippers dove behind the roots again as the tip of a large leg came crashing down into the water. It was as tall as one of the big plants, and looked to be made of the live-stone wood- the fly was right. There were many of them, and they worked together, tilting and leaning before jumping back into the air and slamming down. What a strange way to move.

"That doesn't look like Beggi..." Fa said.

Meke pointed upward. "Look who owns the legs."

Fa looked up. The monstrosity looked nothing like Beggi and seemed to have nothing in common with her. It may not have been Beggi, but it was frightening. What was it? Why was it here? Who was it after? When would things return to normal?

* * *

Azultep plucked a strip of dried seaweed off Kophtet's shoulder. "That was quite the swim."

A guttural noise came from Kophtet, like a growl. The ocean was certainly not as fun to Azultep's companion as it was to him. After all, Kophtet was the one being ridden by that Assholetep. Assholetep. Asshole-tep... Azultep wondered if that was what everyone called him behind his back? Of course it was! How could he forget? Oh the gossip! There are a few things time and death tend to overlook, one of the most irritating being gossip.

Did his loyal Scyrens talk behind his back? He'd be a fool if he thought differently. Of course they did. Although he despised disrespect in his presence - if he couldn't get a person's love, at least he could get their respect, and whether or not that was through fear he could care less, or more, but he made it look like he could always care less, or more - he knew that it would be quite the asshole-ish thing to do to stalk and terrorize those who spoke behind his back. But he couldn't help and do it every once in a while.

Some opinions did matter, or did not. He had the best examples on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't recall them then and there.

Also he was too old for such tomfoolery, and gossip could do wonderful things to those who wanted the fear and terror of every living thing. A cruel, ancient, and mechanical despot was pretty terrifying, but a cruel, ancient, and mechanical despot who was a total asshole was certainly the epitome of true horror.

He knew of the countless tales that were told of him, and he was deeply amused by each and every one of them. Who should care whether or not they were true? The more frightening he was, the easier it would be to make everyone kiss his shiny metal ass, as they ought to.

And oh! How the stories passed through and through about how childish he was in his fits of anger, how insane and mad of an automaton he was, and how he could be triggered by the most minor of sins! It only helped him enjoy the annoyances of immortality and nearing mental decay that the ages brought to his cold, metal body. He could do anything he wanted, not because "you only live once" but because "you only live, period". Why should he do things because he should, why not because he can? Why take the misery of eternity so seriously? Why not revel in the chaos that was the natural order of the universe?

What did these so called "Chaos gods" know about chaos? Absolutely fuck all, that's what. Oh boo hoo, they kill and ravage systems. But guess what? Not only is that just as bland and usual as skinning someone's mother and wearing her flesh to their birthday, that's still order. It's easily explained, completely expected. There's a system, a system to the followers of the "Chaos" gods that resulted in expectations frequently had and met in a timely manner. Expectations met on a regular basis in one way or another is a characteristic of Order, and not Chaos.

When someone mentions the flesh-bags that devote themselves to the "Chaos" gods, one can expect how they look, how they will act, what they will say. They have some semblance of rank, who serves who. What does that sound like? ORDER, that's what!

Azultep believed himself to be better at Chaos than these "Chaos" gods. He was of the random, of the unknown. He could come at any moment, and what he wore on every occasion he made sure to change. What he said on each occasion, he made sure to change. Sure he had to keep some order, like that running gig of randomly showing up in another's presence and taking a piss at some flaw, weakness, or detail of their life they'd rather not share, but it was still entirely random. Who was next? What would he say? Would he even make some nasty joke about them, or just stare and wait for them to react? Random is unpredictable. Unpredictable is a characteristic of true chaos.

Then again, the old automaton thought, anyone could explain chaos, but Azultep? An old pervert with the mind of a child? Not even that could encompass his deeper madness, or was it even madness or a form of sanity so random that it is incomprehensible? Madness, insanity, being an asshole... words used by those who give up on trying to figure him out, or did they? He wasn't sure. Did he even have himself figured out? Did he even know himself to make a distinction? Maybe he does today, maybe he didn't yesterday, but who knows if he will tomorrow? There were things to do, and eternal life meant he could do them whenever, wherever, and however he wanted to do. Everything was a potential playground for the immortal, an undead mechanical toddler in a playpen the size of the universe. Oh the fun he had, the fun he is having, and the fun to be had! Potential everywhere!

"My king- I mean my Phaeron if I may-" Kophtet's voice threw Azultep out of his thoughts.

"Call me Azzy." Azultep collected his fragmented awareness into the present moment.

"B-but- Okay-"

"Okay? What perplexes you my loyal steed?! I insist that my mount understands, for what's worse than a paraplegic mount than one that is confused? Confused mounts run into walls, and eventually get brain hemorrhages, and you always sound like you've had one too many! So tell me! TELL ME I DEMAND YOU!"

* * *

Kophtet found himself caught off guard by Azultep's odd batch of words. Then again, what made this bit of madness different from the normal madness that inhabited this ancient ruler? Certainly the word choice from a casual tone to one a little older (was it a change of dialect?) made somewhat of a difference. But did that difference distinguish this little bit from the usual? Then it occurred to Kophtet, was there ever a usual with Azultep? For the seventieth by seven hundredth time, Kophtet regretted accompanying the mad king on his quest for a single pastry. Cake... Goddamn cake... on the brink of discovery and a great flesh harvest and his highest priority was cake...

Sure, he could harvest on the side - that's if Azultep would allow it. With cake on the old king's mind, he would not stop even for the most smallest of harvests.

The two continued to exchange odd discussions - Azultep yapping on about his odd adventures and Kophtet sighing, groaning, and griping - as the Cryptek strolled high above the wetland waters.

"Are you sure you don't want to do something else for a bit?" Kophtet interrupted.

"Why?"

"Well, we've been going after this cake for some time, and this great quest for the colorful pastry is wearing me out."

"Wearing you out! You're being lazy-"

"I'm serious. Listen to my joints."

Kophtet raised his leg, producing a loud scratch and a piercing squea that made even the Scyrens cower and wince in pain.

"Well then," said Azultep. Kophtet's leg did sound pretty awful. "How about those tentacles of yours?"

Azultep felt the light tapping of a Scyren's finger.

"My Eternal Lord," she said. Kophtet also turned to listen. "I don't think that was his leg."

"Yes, yes! I know, he is very lazy!"

"No, not him-"

"Are you calling ME lazy? Insubordination is not a joke unless I permit it to be, unless it accidentally is!"

The Scyren, with a humble yet irritated look on her face, pointed below them.

Azultep leaned over the edge of Kophtet's lower abdomen which the six legs jutted from (and where at one end, his "regular" torso, with the spine and many tentacles, was attached) and looked. He loosened himself, ready incase someone tried to shove him off. Surely some of his chaotic rubbed off on his servants. How else could someone look so humble, so fearing, yet so aggressively irritated?

When he looked over, he discovered that she was not lying. Someone was standing down there, and with some weird instrument. Like someone who didn't know how to properly make themselves a guitar or had a hard time deciding what string instrument they should make and ended up with something utterly random. It was an admirable concept. And this someone wore a black robe and his bald head was not covered by the hood. He looked up and smiled.

"Greetings flesh-peasant, could you please look away and forget you ever saw us?" Azultep said, adjusting to the most basic of human tongues he knew. "Unless you know where there is cake."

The black robed man fell prostrate in the muddy waters. Bubbles came up through the brownish-yellow slush around his submerged head.

"Oh dear. He's more braindead than you, Cryptek." Azultep and the others looked down at the man. Certainly he was not the most brightest fellow they encountered. Nevertheless, it was intriguing and a bit entertaining to watch the human drown himself.

"If I were him and was compelled to drown myself, I would've chosen cleaner water." Said Kophtet. "It's a faster death, and if you fail you don't end up slowly suffocating from all the mud in your lungs."

They watched him for a little longer.

"Should we do something?" Asked a Scyren.

"Let's not rush to conclusions, my dear," said Azultep. "We could be interrupting something completely fascinating."

"What? Watching a man drown himself in mud?"

"My dear daughter, it is not the stupid man drowning himself in the mud that is fascinating, but his dedication to it."

"Tsk tsk tsk. What a waste of what could've been a good specimen." Then it dawned on Kophtet, he didn't have to let a perfectly good specimen to waste. "What if he knows where there's cake?"

"What? A really stupid person?"

"They usually know where cake is as they love a sugary diet filled with pastries."

"Good point-" Azultep squinted his eyes. He caught the joke. It was definitely not an accident and utterly deliberate. "And they are also incredibly lazy."

Kophtet smiled. "Fortunately I am not."

The two stared at each other. Kophtet flicked off a shred of seaweed with a Sehker as he waited for a rebuttal.

Azultep, staring still, then said, "Scyrens, save that man and clean him up. I may have use for him." He had something clever to say, but it was at the tip of his tongue. He forgot what it was.


	41. Episode 41: Nose Sticking

**Episode 41**

**Nose Sticking**

* * *

Keistered guns made the dinner interesting, especially when their host was a pretty woman.

The four Inquisitors, often denounced as near-strays (but not borderline heretics) by fellow members in years before, found that one benefit of such an uncomfortable move was an improved posture. If they slouched they could feel the pain of their guns stretching their insides like some oversized suppository.

Their posture, as well as their good table manners (caution, stiffness, and always asking for permission as well as asking to be excused) didn't impress the boy's mother. Rather, she worried that she found a bunch of prudish men. Such unnecessary caution and sensitivity made for dull guests. Then again, they seemed rather foreign. Did they mistake her to be offended by the slightest burp, fart, or cough so that she would think less of them if they held the spoon in the wrong hand, butter bread with their fingers, or chug down their drink while holding their glass improperly?

The truth was quite different. At first sight, she hoped they would do these things. It would be an interesting change for once. The constant formal dining with her husband's friends became an utter bore. Rules rules rules, manners manners manners. All pleasantry and no play made her feel like a dull hostess, or like one of those overly sensitive bitches who put on such an obviously fake smiley face just to impress you, and then turned out to be a demon incarnate if you were to offend them. From a young age, the beautiful sweet Missus knew that the secret to avoiding emotional social drama was thick skin and a crude, rude, and definitely lewd sense of humor.

"Of course, I don't want to sound nosy," began the Tall-One. "But what does your husband do for a living?" The other Inquisitors looked at their fellow with concern. The three believed that he didn't have it in him to seem so blatantly nosy in such a fragile situation, as that was something they expected of the Short-One and Purge-A-Lot. But now he was asking questions in such a direct manner that it was too much of a risk. Questions that made them reach toward their asshole to pull out their guns if the worst case scenario were to occur.

Purge-A-Lot's eyes bulged the most. Such a risk could bring harm to their mission, as either the Tall-One might get to know the woman too well that he could not let go of her, or vice versa. Or far worse she might get to know them so that they'd be vulnerable if indeed she is a worshipper of a Chaos god. He didn't shove a gun up his ass just to fix his sitting posture.

"What does he do?" The woman asked. Was this red-head interested in her? Maybe so. She didn't mind red-heads, or men with long silky hair. What she did mind, however, was if he was wearing a pleasant face or actually invested in talking with her. She spoke with a tone of sheer irritated-ness when she said, "He works for the government. Confidential information. All he thinks of are the papers, but that's his job. To study the paperwork on and off the job. Don't get me wrong, he's a nice husband, but he's better at being a worker." And he was far better at being an amateur politician, saying the right words in order to be persuasive, than being an actual person with a soul.

"A sense of duty is honorable," said Purge-A-Lot. The words that fled from his lips caught him by surprise. He cleared his throat and put down another spoonful of what looked and tasted like mashed sweet potatoes. He couldn't help but honor and defend a man with a sense of devotion that sounded like his own.

"Yes, but men with too much sense of duty turns wives into widows and spinsters." The woman replied with a chuckle.

Purge-A-Lot tried to hold back, but once again his tongue loosened and his lips started moving. "A worthy sacrifice for a greater cause."

His lack of hesitation to speak drew stealthy glances from all around the table, even from the boy. The Missus, although somewhat relieved at her guests opening up to conversation, remained frustrated with her guests, yet did not express it openly.

There were the nice men, the gentlemen, and then the men so full of themselves that all they could think about was themselves and the superficial. These "superficial" thinkers held strict loyalty to rank and command and obeyed regardless of who was hurt. By now she had an idea of who at the table were the nice men, who was the gentleman, and who was the man so full of himself and his "duty" that he had no room for anyone else.

"So how about our uniforms. What do you think?" Cut-Face asked in an attempt to break whatever ice had reformed after Purge-A-Lot's careless remark.

"What do I think about their uniforms," the Missus thought. The question seemed as self-centered and duty-bound as the leading figure word-wise, but the tone was like the red-head's, being genuinely interested and invested. Which of the two the scarred man was more like she did not currently know, but she wanted to find out.

"They're... interesting. The darker colors work well with each other, or that might just be the rain. Some of the fabric seemed quite, what is the word? Absorbent. And the rest seemed waterproof. The clothes seemed very durable and like they've been through a lot, which is interesting as well since durable clothes are too plain and beautiful wear is too easy to rip apart. Which brings me to ask- well, out of ignorance as I am obviously not the traveler, are you guys from that space ship? Up there in the sky?" She waited for their answer, as she could learn more about them even with the most simplistic response.

The four inquisitors kept eye contact for a moment before looking back down to their food and to themselves in silence. The silence hung over the table for a while, but she didn't need to hear a yes to know that they confirmed it just by their silence and by the conflicting glances they gave one another. She wasn't blind either, she was one of a handful of people who saw the shuttle fly high overhead creating contrails to tight for any other form of craft. By now many were familiar, with the frequent visits of their space-guests, with what the Inquisitors flew down in.

But never had any of those who knew let the Inquisitors know that they knew, until now.

She raised her hand and snapped her fingers four times. Esif rose from the table, folded his hands and bowed to them, and then made his way to his room upstairs. Once he was gone, she lowered her head to the table, and in a soft, confronting voice said, "What business do you have here?"

Should they tell her that they were here to perform their duties on behalf of the God-Emperor of Mankind? Or should they say they are passing visitors? It was a hard decision, then again, who was she to send her son away to his room to talk with them? The four Inquisitors found it to be very peculiar that she would send her boy away to talk with them. There were other things as well, other odd details such as her lack of dressing up. What message was she trying to convey about herself? That she was relaxed? Seductive? Sloppy? Lazy? Lacking control in her life? This and the many others were too much for the Inquisitors to simply think about. They had to discuss it, but now was not the time.

The clock continued ticking, and the more time passed the more intense her look of suspicion became. With the intensifying expression on her face, the Inquisitors become more nervous. Once more, the question came to mind: tell her, or lie? They could not avoid such a direct question, not now. She was facing them alone with a determined look on her face that said that this woman was one to take seriously despite her appearances.

The lamp above radiated heat that made the table feel like an oven. Once more they were becoming damp, but not from rain. Rather, their bodies were wet with cold sweat.

The Short-One, far beyond uncomfortable with the current situation, turned and looked at the Tall-One. The Tall-One then turned to Cut-Face. Cut-Face stopped chewing for a moment, a brow raised at the surprise that the other might as well have shoved him under a baneblade.

He wanted to reach for his gun in case the discussion went belly up, however, he did not know if his fellow Inquisitor's were in a similar situation.

Earlier his bowels moved, and his internals flicked the safety off on his gun with a metallic click. When asked what was that sound, he excused it for a steel rod shifting against his Tibula bone that helped him stay in action as a broken Fibia healed. It wasn't a complete lie, but it was a first one he told outside of a joke or an inspiring story.

It was a strange thing to be held at gun-point by his own gut. When he was much younger, a fellow Inquisitor who bore a greater amount of experience told him to always trust his gut. He did for the most part up until this point. But with his gut trying to kill him, who could he trust? Sure as hell not the others.

Basic reasoning said that he should excuse himself, and then carefully rise from his chair, as slow as possible, and maintain a posture that ensured that the gun would not go off inside him. Part-way through thinking this, he stumbled upon another question: which way was the gun aiming? Sure he knew it was aiming up, but where up? If it were to go off, would the bullet rip through vital organs and thus letting him die a slow and painful death, or would it leave a bloody mess on the inside followed by a puncture hole on the outside, with minimal injury other than internal bleeding. The worst he could think of was if the bullet hit his spine and made him unable to use his limbs, or tear straight up through the body and into his skull.

But he had to stand up eventually, and now was a great time as it would relieve the tension building in their silence.


	42. Episode 42: Bending Over

**Episode 42**

**Bending Over**

* * *

The Midshipman, leading the Mutiny and the hunt for the Inquisitor, was a man by the name of Lucair. Due to a concussion and the lack of surviving records with his last name, all anyone knew was that this man was name Lucair. For him, that was that.

Yet there were things in life he refused to settle with, such as this damned Inquisitor running around the Fidelis and swatting the men like flies. In the narrow corridors of the vessel, Lucair found nothing else but despair.

"Group one, head down that way!"

"Who's group one?" an crewman asked.

"You and the rest of them!" Lucair replied. "GO!"

The situation was tumbling out of his grasp, but he refused to give up even when the organization of teams broke down.

There were whole groups of men KIA, and many more MIA who the Inquisitor had cut off by demolishing all the main corridors to their section of the ship. Thus, Lucair was a little more wary of sending out hunting parties. The tables were turning, the roles of hunter and hunted becoming more apparent, that he was sure of. What he wasn't sure of was when he was the hunted. He had plenty more of ideas on how to deal with this Inquisitor, but how much longer he had he couldn't figure out.

The remnants of other teams he sent out earlier followed him around a bend and down a longer, taller corridor. Lucair made a subtle upward gesture with three fingers, and the crew uner his command kept their eye on the ceiling. This Quiet-one was good. Too good.

* * *

High above the procession, laying amongst the wires and pipes was the Quiet-one. The temptation to toss down a smoke and then a frag grenade was strong. But nothing was ever so simple, not even killing a bunch of targets beneath him. Plus, he was turning his struggle to survive into a sort of sport, making up little rules such as not killing unarmed crewmen and attacking only when spotted. Outright slaughter became boring after a few days.

He crawled past them to the T intersection at the end of the corridor. If one is to reveal himself to the enemy in sport, he must do it in style. The Quiet-One kicked and scraped pipes and wires to draw their attention upward. As he approached the intersection high up in the utility rafters, he made sure to tear off a piece of his cloak. He dropped it and continued to crawl and make noise.

* * *

"Look over there!"

The men tightened their formation.

"He's here!" one of them hissed in Lucair's ear.

"No shit," Lucair replied. "You three, go ahead and check it out. We'll have your backs."

Three armed crewmen nodded and approached the torn cloth in the most tactical manner they knew.

* * *

The Inquisitor heard Lucair's heavy facepalm, but restrained his curiosity for a moment. He took a right at the T intersection and dropped from the rafters without a sound. He took his hat off an looked around the corner.

To his amusement he found three crewmen approaching the small torn segment in the oddest manner conceivable. One man mashed his front into the wall and dragged himself along, trying to maintain a low profile. Another man rolled along the floor in bursts, stopping to check his surroundings. The third man did what can only be described as a constipated-low-squat crab-walk. All three had their lasguns awkwardly trained ahead of them. The Quiet-One couldn't control his wild grin. He didn't expect much from untrained crewman, but this was one miserable sight.

With the pity of a man in front of three dying horses, the Quiet-One spun out of cover and put a round in each of their heads and continued spinning until he was behind the other corner.

"I saw him! There!"

Sure the spinning was a bit silly, there was no denying that, yet it had a sort of terrifying edge. A man under the pressure of being hunted would peak out from behind cover and then shoot. A hunter manipulating his prey would make a show of himself, even if it was silly. Any intelligent prey avoids a playful hunter.

The only thing that failed the Quiet-One was his hope in the crew's intelligence. Surely they'd be cautious after a move like that - he popped three moving heads while spinning. But once again he had overestimated their sense of self-preservation. They really wanted him dead.

He peaked around the corner and watched the procession charge toward him with caution thrown into the wind. All of them were armed. Now he waited with his head out to see if they would strike first.

One screaming lasgun blast later, he pulled behind cover, cooked a grenade in his hand for a few seconds, dropped it, and ran. The crewmen chased him with weight in their feet, pounding the floor. He on the other hand ran with light feet, making little noise as he gained distance from them.

He continued running, swerving away from the bullets that were coming left and right. An explosion rocked the corridor and behind him came the cries of men being ripped apart.

The Inquisitor looked behind him. The moment captured him and the chunks of flesh and bone slowly fell to the floor. Shades of bright red, dark red, faded yellow, and pure white painted the corridor in an avant-garde fashion. The gore splashed against the walls and floor, sculpting flesh landscapes.

Furthermore, the pulp of pink, soft flesh and fresh dark red blood that didn't cling to these planes leaped back into the air with intestines and other organs balancing the weight of the scene in all three (and possibly four, considering time itself) dimensions. The colored walls made the frame and the flying flesh was the paint on the invisible canvas.

No still medium such as painting, sketching, or even photography could speak of the morbid beauty of death and its eventuality. Only a gory scene such as this could. In a life where death had become a constant, one could try to run from or embrace it. Those who ran lived lives of misery and suffering, and those who learned to love the balance of chaos and order in death lived lives of fulfillment, without the paralyzing fear or dread of their counterparts. Death was the only chaos the Imperium accepted, as even the Emperor had dealt it by large quantities when he lead the armies of Terra against every galactic scourge.

The Inquisitor slammed into something hard. Even embracing death itself, life held many surprises. He stumbled back and looked up at the monstrosity of blue and gold. Large guns clicked and a barrel found itself in front of his face. Now he questioned if he was really doing his duty, or whether he was just searching or the right Bolter to stand in front of. For sure the crew behind him had lost all sense of remaining loyal to their Emperor through their superiors, and lost a longing to remain unified for His Eternal Glory. They were heretics.

But how about him? How could he justify this act of slaughter to a squad of the Emperor's finest, a squad not even he knew was aboard the ship? How could he justify the mess of human flesh that painted the corridor behind him? How could he testify his case when men, covered in the blood, pulped flesh, and fractured bones of their friends were racing toward him for revenge?

Before he could find an answer, a large metal hand shoved him down followed by the roar of Bolters, Heavy Bolters, and a Melta gun.

The Inquisitor turned his head and watched as the Ultramarines decimated the remaining crew in the corridor. What would've taken the Quiet-One a couple of hours and few more days took these men of power armor seconds. They stopped shooting as fast as they began and let the mist of dust and blood settle.

Luciar was the only survivor, besides a crewman who crawled along the floor with his entrails being the only remains of anything below his chest. The midshipman looked at the other end of the corridor where the Inquisitor lay at the feet of five - or was it six? - of the Emperor's finest. Confused and terrified, he fled back into the corridor he was marching through moments ago.

"My, my," the leader of the squad said. "Heresy and cowardice going hand in hand. Never fails."

The Inquisitor looked up.

A large blue hand reached down. "You must be the 'Quiet-One' causing all this chaos. I'd have to say, I'm impressed. I haven't known a single man who has successfully taken on a mutiny like this."

The Inquisitor pushed the hand aside and rose to his feet. He brushed the dust off his shoulders and knees.

"And living up to the name, you haven't said a word. This is going to make things interesting. Anyway, to answer any questions you may have and to avoid the topic of that should-be-heretical sign language, here's the plan. Nod if you want to come along, shake your head no if you feel lucky."

The Quiet-One kept eye contact.

"Alright, first of all we finish off as many of these scoundrels as we can and then we make our way to the shuttle bay. Marcus over here has already planted a few Melta-Bombs ready to detonate this space-hulk once we're off it."

The Inquisitor pointed to his wrist.

"They're not timed, but that doesn't mean we should to stay here too long. Otherwise they might find them and try to remove them."

The Inquisitor nodded. It was an easy decision, besides the ship being destroyed. How would anyone leave the planet now?

"Good. Also, do need another gun? The Autopistol is fine, but there may be bigger targets down on the planet."

The Inquisitor handed over the Autopistol and took the Bolter pistol. It was larger and certainly more clumsy, but the Ultramarine did have a point. Plus, he was running low with the Autopistol.

"By no means do I intend to disrespect your authority, Inquisitor, but until we get off this ship you'll be following my orders. That means no straying from the team, no lone-wolfing, and any of the like. Am I clear?"

The Inquisitor nodded.

"Good." The squad leader turned to his men. "Keep your guns at the ready, I have a feeling that our cowardly foe will return with more. We'll continue our course to the ship bay, and get out by anything we can use as a shuttle." He then turned to the Inquisitor. "My name is Bartholomew Diacus, though I'm sure you don't have any trouble with nicknames."


	43. Episode 43: Knocked Hard

The warmth of the liquor warmed her stomach and she drifted into a deep sleep.

Coldness. Sudden coldness hitting her across the face and trinkling down her neck woke up her up. It was dark, and she was unarmed and undressed. The rock under her felt like ice, but there was no seat she could sit on. Her natural instinct wanted her to panic, demanded she panic, demanded that she flee in a fury of fear and bewilderment. But she knew better.

When eyes adjusted she saw faint grey outlines in the darkness. She wanted to reach out and feel her surroundings, but she didn't, aware of the potential dangers within the darkness. She wanted to call out his name, but even that too was dangerous. She wanted to do so much, but her strange surroundings gave her reason to be extremely cautious.

What happened? the question kept bugging her. One minute she was having a good time with new friends, and the next in a cold dark place. She felt a slight breeze blow up from under her, brush between her legs and lick around her breasts, arms, and sides

Maybe she should feel around regardless of the possible dangers. Knowing her surroundings could help her remember what got her here.

She stretched out her arms and walked forward. It took several paces before she felt something cold, rough, and flat like a wall made of cast iron. She turned around, and took twice as many paces, and found another wall. She shimmied to the right and to the left, only to feel walls there as well.

She was in a box, possibly a cell of sorts. Cast iron all around - she figured the roof would be made of the same material. There were no crevices or bumps or bolts or hinges in the walls to indicate a door or any opening. The only opening she could find was in the floor. The metal grating's holes were small and were in a circular pattern. However, the grating was part of the floor and cast iron as well. It felt rusty, yet it wasn't brittle.

Her brain still spun in her head, and the longer it spun the more intense the migraine and the pain on the back of her head became.

Did she have a concussion?

She tried to remember, but all she came to was a blank. She dug around in her head to see if she still remembered the important things, like what her name was. Madenna? Madison? Macbeth? Madonna? All seemed pretty distant, especially the last one. Jenny? Sue? Sally? Laura? Nothing. No name gave a comforting familiarity.

Digging further, she found that she couldn't recall much other than being an Inquisitor. Why or how she was an Inquisitor seemed to have been knocked out of her head with her name. What was she doing here as an Inquisitor? No memories of what happened before came to mind besides the set of memories of drinking in a bar and flirting with some chief guard... or something like that. Although what an Inquisitor was supposed to do exactly didn't come to mind, she had a feeling that drinking and flirting seemed out of place for someone with the title of "Inquisitor".

Someway, somehow, she'd figure it out, and standing in a dark box for an indefinite amount of time would certainly not give her any idea of what happened. Most likely the box wasn't buried underground, and perhaps there was some space behind the walls. It wouldn't make sense that a buried box would have a drain underneath it, as buried boxes with people inside it seemed more of a deathtrap (with no drains) than a means of containment. Then again, it could be buried with a drain at the bottom, but that seemed less likely.

There was no way out, nor was there any way she could force herself out. But that drain in the floor as well... It could mean that her captors may have the intention to keep their captive alive. If she were to wait a bit perhaps food would be delivered, and then she could escape. That's if the box opened in a reachable place. If it opened above, there would be no way she could climb out if the ceiling was high.

"Thank the Emperor that I still have my wits," she whispered to herself. "Wits, or a lot of wishful thinking."

Something pinged overhead, followed by a voice that rung in the box like a church bell. "Twelve is conscious. Proceeding to open the cell."

Snack time already?

The walls around her lifted, letting light it. They were hinged to the ceiling, and they were lifted away with the clanking and clogging of cogs and chains. She looked down and covered her eyes from the blinding glare of the light, which made it seem less likely that she would be able to make a run for it.

Her eyes adjusted, and she saw that she was surrounded by a detail of guards. Their guns pointed down and they stood at ease. They looked relaxed, unprepared, and unaware, but she knew better. Her gut told her that it was a trap, and she trusted her gut. It was the only thing she could trust.

A white cloth smacked against her back and shoved her off her balance. "Put it on." The now clear voice said. It sounded familiar. It sounded like the chief guard.

He stepped through a pair of the guards, pushing them aside and then folding his arms behind his back. "Follow me, please," he said in a plain tone. There was no cheer, no flirtatiousness, no warmth to his demeanor, a stark difference to what was there in her fuzzy memory.

She looked around, and similar dark boxes were laid out in grid form across the massive room. Chains dropping from the ceiling were hooked to their roofs. Above by the chains were catwalks far above the ceiling lights, concealing whoever stood on them.

The Inquisitor followed the chief guard up a ramp and through a set of double doors. Two guards followed from behind, maintaining their calm appearance. The set of doors behind them locked, and to their right was a one-way mirror. "Cleared," a feminine voice announced. The second set of armored double doors in front of them clicked, and they passed through.

The hallways were of concrete and steel, foreboding in design with solid lines and cut edges. There were colored strips along the walls and floor, with words written on them such as, "Main Building", "Armory", and "Maintenance 2". Her surroundings had a more militaristic feel, reminiscent of the Imperial Guard.

"Where are we heading to?" The Inquisitor asked.

The chief guard turned his head, winked, and kept walking.

With everything clandestine and no visual cues to tell her the time or place, she was left to ponder. And fragments of memory returned to her, the first being how she ended up with these guards.

With arms cuffed behind her back and two guards with their arms slung around her shoulders, she was escorted away from the landing zone. She glanced back and saw the Inquisitors surrounded by guards aiming at them. They were defeated, yet their faces remained defiant and determined, especially the temporary leader of the team.

There and then she swore no vengeance, and was sure that her embarassing captivity wouldn't be as bad as the time she and the Quiet-One were separated from their Terminator escorts on a space hulk infested with gene stealers.

And that's where the fragment ended.

But it told a lot. She was not on a regular colony planet, rather one that seemed to be on its own. It did not recognize Inquisitors or the Emperor's authority. It was a heretical planet. Everyone was a target. Especially these guards in particular, which she looked at with caution due to other memories - the warmer, dreamy kind from the fuzzy bits of her memory.

They turned right at one intersection, left at another, left, and then right. Down the hall there were twenty four green doors, numbered and reinforced with a ribbed surface. A green strip along the floor said, "Intelligence". She sighed. Great, some interrogation.

A guard ran ahead and opened the "8" door, and the inside of the room was just as bland and dull as she expected. The folding chairs, stainless steel table, and the one-way mirror. Boring, boring, boring. The only interesting feature of the room was the cold air, near freezing she guessed.

She didn't let them escort her to the chair facing the mirror, she did it herself. "Might as well get this over with," she said. Three guards and the chief entered the room, the latter closing the door behind him.

The chief sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table, his back turned to the mirror. One guard took position next to him, the other two behind the Inquisitor. The chief drummed on the top of the table with his thumbs and cleared his throat. She gripped the cloth and tightened it around her for warmth. She kept a confident look. Although she did feel weak and drained, she kept her body language and facial expressions confident and capable. Sure, she was their captive, but captors generally treat the strong and resilient with more respect than those who are weak and submissive - opponent versus opponent breeds competitive respect, enforcer versus target breeds a one-way relationship of dominance.

That competitive respect she needed now due to the disadvantage the pain at the back of her head and the memory loss put her in. She also needed the respect because of the slight chance that she had been interrogated before and received the concussion to be forced into submission. Sure, a stalwart appearance could make future torture more painful, but it would leave an impression to these folk that the Inquisition was no organization to mess around with.

She stared the chief guard right in the eye with a challenging glare. "Bring it on," she thought. "Give me your best shot."


	44. Episode 44: Pummeled by Demmel

**Episode 44**

**Pummeled By Demmel**

* * *

The missing workers and interns scared away investors, but that did not bother Cox. After all, those who were scared away were timid with their contributions, so all their departure affected was how often the dig team ate desert. _We are slacking a bit,_ thought Cox as he watched the crew remove the excess mud that found its way into the caverns housing the ancient underground complex. Automatic buckets, pumps, and conveyor belts worked around the clock to remove as much debris as possible so the dig could get back to work, as well as cover for the number of missing workers.

Cox pulled a worker to the side. "Would you mind going to the comms and communicating this to the other sites?" He handed a note pad with several pages worth of writing.

The worker gave him a wide eye stare. "With all due respect, Mister Cox, joining the ranks of the missing is not high on my list of priorities here."

"I'll send guards."

"Four?"

"Four."

The worker took the note pad in one hand, and slung a pickaxes over the other shoulder. Cox whistled to a guards and signaled for four to escort the worker to the comms station. _If HE goes missing, then to hell with it. I'll do it myself._ Word of the missing spread like wildfire over the past few days, putting a dent in the morale of several thousand tired yet eager workers. Even though he felt confident, deep down he was becoming a little worried himself. What happened to the intern? They found nobody in the complex, not even in the ancient hall they used as a spare storage room between the surface and the deeper structure.

_Cox, the first thing a man must do when he finds water in his boat is to check the weakpoints._ It wasn't hard to figure out the first potential suspect.

Seeker Demmel sat in his tent, pondering the text of the ancients. For years these texts had been hidden in museums and private collections, dismissed as fabrications by early human settlers: fictitious tales created simply for fun. The religion formed around these texts, artifacts, and ancient sites had been dismissed by the public to be a bunch of foolishness, like the religion following the unknown Emperor of Mankind extraterrestrial traders talked about. The religion, the general public claimed, was built on false apocalyptic hopes a means to manipulate the unfortunate and hopeless. Some called it a scam, as many infamous members tried to use it for their own profit through unreasonable tithes and offerings.

The public simply didn't trust a religion speaking of a race of ancient machines rising from buried graves for an apocalypse, especially with the stories of blood sacrifices performed by the infamous "Seekers". Men like Demmel found themselves barred from wearing ceremonial wear in public, as activists had used similar garments for acts of mass slaughter and fear mongering in the past. So when ballsy men like Cox came around, men who's ego came before their sense of self preservation, and asked for an advisor, Demmel took up the offer, freeing him from the Grand Temple in the Abysmal swamps.

Cox burst through the tent flaps. "Demmel, I will apologize for my sarcasm earlier in the week so long as you can help me."

Demmel pulled back his black hood and blew out the blood wax candles on his night stand. "Of course, Cox. How can I be of help?"

"Come with me, we need to speak in private."

Demmel followed cox to the massive tent. There, they went into a sound proofed room. Cox always had one built wherever he was stationed, from he was part of the militia.

A pair of armed guards rolled open the reinforced door, and Cox and his guest went inside. The guards rolled it shut, and the lock clicked into place.

The silence in the room was a relief for Demmel, as his tent kept out everything but the noise of the work around him. _I should ask Cox if I can borrow this for meditation and reading._ The soundproofing was hidden behind wooden walls. The interior was designed to look like a cabin office, with the various pelts covering the floor, taxidermic beasts bursting through the wall, and a library of books standing behind the desk. Rifles, axes, and basic tools decorated the shelves. Achievements in a small, portable display case reflected Cox's love for the outdoors, challenges, and exploration. There were no computers in this office. The closest thing to one was a typewriter on the desk with a stack of hardy paper nearby. On the other side of the desk was a basic electric lamp, a yellow notepad, and a pen made of some exotic feather, dipped into a black ivory inkwell. (or was it fossilized bone?)

Cox pulled out the leather chair behind the hardwood desk and sat down. "Have a seat, Demmel."

Demmel sat down in a chair that stood small and insignificant compared to Cox's seat.

"Now Seeker," Cox said with his eyes cast down at the desk. In the pause, he took a metal tin from the drawer and set it on the desk next to a pipe. "I trust you to be an honest man." He opened the tin, took a pinch tobacco, and mashed it into the cup of the pipe. "You've never asked me for a dime, and you've been quite sincere. Not once has surveillance seen you come out of your tent past reasonable hours." He put the tin back in the drawer and shut it. "Searches of your possessions and your tent has shown you to be a clean man, with nothing to hide so far as I'm concerned."

Demmel snapped his fingers, producing a flame between his index and thumb.

Cox grinned, and held out his pipe. "Yet that doesn't mean that I don't have some suspicions about you."

Demmel put his two fingers in the cup of the pipe, lighting it, took them out and shook off the fire. He withdrew his hands back into the sleeves of his robe. "A man of worries and caution is the wiser than one who feels secure, especially when in the company of men like myself."

"Unfortunately that's not the reason I brought you here."

"But it has something to do with it. But what is your main reason?"

"People have gone missing in the camp."

The Seeker took a deep breath and brushed his fingers over his bald head. "So you brought me here to answer if I have kidnapped anyone?"

"Right'o, Seeker."

The Seeker cleared his throat. Struggling to grin, he said, "You see Captain Cox, when one cannot find a suitable sacrifice they must improvise."

Cox grinned and shook his head in dismissal. "You're terrible at sarcasm."

"But you saw my point."

"I did. So you didn't kidnap or secretly run off with workers and interns for secret sacrifices."

"I am familiar with secrecy, but that makes me no liar. Have I ever deceived you?"

"You have pulled fast ones."

"But not with missing people."

"True." Cox stroked his beard, and took a puff from his pipe.

"I am willing to help, as I am jealous that there is a party that is trying to play the subtle card better than I. Even so, why would you come to a mysterious man as myself? Has it come to that point?" Missing workers and interns at an archeological site -_There are obvious connections, but where is the focal point?_

Cox stroked his beard some more. "Sometimes mysterious men have the keys to mysterious events. Consider yourself the second member in my investigation team."

"Second member?"

"I am the first." He chuckled. "I just got the idea now."

"Always on site with everything."

"You understand me."

"You're not that hard to not understand." Demmel cleared his throat again. "Is there any place that can be looked over? Any location of interest?"

"There is," said Cox. "There's a tent that on the inside looks like a masochists naughty pen. I don't recall it looking like that before the intern went missing."

"Let's go then. Right now."

Cox grinned through his whiskers. "Now there's an attitude that goes after my own heart."

The two, accompanied by guards, came to the tent. Closed off with warning signs and markings, the ground in front of it was avoided by workers. Stakes were in the ground around the tent, as workers had removed the adjacent tents. Everyone on site avoided the cursed tent, refusing to step near it. It was no accident, that much the Seeker could tell. _What is it though? A sign? A message?_ "I'll head inside," he said. Cox nodded and gestured to the guards. They stepped up next to him, gun sights on the tent.

The Seeker removed his outer robe revealing a dress suit underneath. He tossed his robes into the arms of a surprised Cox and entered into the tent.

It was dark inside the tent. "Cox! Restore the power! I need illumination!" Moments later the LED lights flickered on. The tent was empty, besides the LED strips above and the stakes in the floor, with clumps of blood near them. "Interesting," Demmel said as he drew a magnifying marble from his vest pocket. He squatted for a closer look. There was flesh on the stakes, and the way they were positioned told him that the flesh belonged to someone's feet. With the markings on the floor of the tent, and the flesh on the spikes, someone had their feet nailed down, and torn them free. That person most likely had an infection by now, or a pair of horrific feet.

Demmel pocketed magnifying marble and turned to the tent flaps. Then he saw something on the inside of the tent, a pair of dotted lines running up the wall and onto the shelve flaps on the roof of the tent. He looked around and found the light controller hanging from the wire, the dial set slightly below normal. "Cox, I need more power. I'm going to turn up the lights."

"Don't blow a fuse! We won't be getting another supply run for weeks"

Demmel took the controller in hand and turned up the dial until the wall was well lit. "I never thought I'd see the day..."


	45. Episode 45: Maddening Meaninglessness

**Episode 45**

Gretznuk looked at the cigar, looked at Szazadrekh, and looked at Phet.

"So?" the skeletal ruler said.

It was too late now for the little Phet to jump on Gretz's head and stick that tail in. It would look rather suspicious, never mind odd. The big machine gave the small mechanical bug glances full of suspicion, and impatient glares to Gretznuk. They had sat there for what felt like forever.

"Just trying to remember," Gretznuk said. _Trying to figure out._

"So that's a cigar, eh?" said Phet. "Don't you puff those things by sucking on one end, while lighting the other, and then sucking and blowing as long as the end glows."

"What he said." Gretznuk was relieved, and a tad embarrassed, but thankful his little suspicious machine friend had a clue what was going on.

"I thought so," said Szazadrekh.

Phet sighed. "So why are you asking him for help?"

"I just wanted to make sure."

"Mhm." The bug crossed his front legs. "How about you get that jaw first before you pass your boredom to us."

"You are very perceptive," said the Necron Lord.

"No, I'm just aware of the obvious."

Szazadrekh tore the cigar from the young ork's hands and pressed the nob against his solid face. "I am sure I will be seeing you two soon."

"Mhm," said Phet. The Necron Lord pivoted on his heel, flinging his scaled cape into their faces before marching out. Once he was gone, Phet slapped Gretznuk's face.

"And that was the biggest waste of time I have ever seen in my conscious existence. And to think you looked worried for a second. I know your special special, but not _this_ special."

"Well I didn't know, and at least we have some guaranteed freedom."

"I wouldn't be so optimistic, my green friend," Phet said. "We got that big friend of yours who's still 'alive', meaning you and me can be replaced. We have to get rid of him."

Gretz felt pity for Netzerbek, then again, the big green and overly aggressive ork was not the most ideal of individuals. Not only that, Netzerbek was currently in a miserable state between life and death, as it looked when he was in the bridge with them. Gretz and Phet would be doing everyone a favor by ending his life.

"Alright, what's our plan bound to fail?" Gretz asked.

"Simple. We get his body, and we roast him completely."

"I remember the weapons of our hosts being very precise. It would take a while to roast the body entirely-"

"Not if we ejected him into one of the reactors," Phet said. "The moment-"

"How about waugh?"

"Waugh? What is that good for?"

"Absolutely nothing," Gretz shrugged. "Other than getting him killed. I mean, if we start-"

"Waugh? You mean war? And by that I'm guessing you mean we start an insurrection."

"Yea. I suppose so."

"Terrible idea," said Phet. "I don't remember our hosts being known to take insurrections well, nevermind how pointless it is to fight a legion beyond death. My dear green friend, who the heck would start an insurrection aboard this-"

The answer hit Phet in the form of a blast of pure energy, knocking him against a wall.

"Issss... that... a Krrrrork aboooooooard... myy... vesssseel?" a voice echoed.

Gretz turned to the stranger who had just entered, and Phet got back on his feet. One bright green eye stared at him on a head covered in shadows. The glow of the eye reflected off the visitor's shoulders and chest, and shimmered on the polished floor.

Phet crawled his way back to Gretz. "And I was lead to believe you had become a lifeless boring drone like the rest of them. There goes my hopes for a life without a trigger-happy sniper. My dear green friend, I give you the honor of meeting the Deathmark. Nobody knows his name, but they know his mark. There are many like him, but only he carries his mark... Even though that's what he is, a Deathmark."

"So a guy who is called 'the Deathmark', but is also a 'Deathmark'?"

"Deathmark is a Necron sniper. And if you haven't noticed already, all life aboard this ship with authority or are a rank under the command of Szaza are known as Necrons. That's right, the spooky scary skeletons that will rip out your spine are called Necrons. I'm surprised we haven't had this conversation already. It like we've been waisting time doing nothing all along."

"Interesting name choice, yet odd that they're called 'Deathmarks' when their part of a race called, 'Necrons'."

"Yes yes, it's silly. But when you haven't had a wink of sleep for a couple millennia, and are unable to rest properly - not just hibernate - my good special friend, you get fellows like him with new names. I know they had some old names back in the day, but there's far too many names in my head for me to remember."

"Well maybe I can find him a new one," Gretz said, stepping forward to get a look at their visitor. Something pinched his right lower arm. He turned his head. Everything below the elbow had been severed. A limp hand lay on the floor.

"The riiight hannd... of everyyyy... Krrrork I... fiiiind..."

"But what if he doesn't have a right hand?" Gretz asked, his curiosity back into motion.

"Of all the questions you had to ask," Phet sighed.

Something pinched his lower left arm. When Gretz looked, his left hand was on the floor. "Well, that's an issue," the ork replied. He felt the presence of something behind him, and saw a pair of arms reach down and pick up the hands. He turned around, and the presence was gone.

When he turned back around, he found a skeletal figure towering over him. A mechanical cyclops wielding a long glowing rifle in one hand, and while pinning a pair of hands to a belt with the other. The belt was made of various hands of different shades. Looking at it made Gretz flinch.

"And jusssst... to puuuurge... the infessstation!"

Numerous metallic feet clasped against the metallic floor in a marching chorus, growing ever louder from the darkness from where the Deathmark emerged.

Gretz looked at Phet. "Run?"

"You're already dead," Phet said.

The ork watched as dozens of eyes appeared behind the Deathmark, glowing as brightly as the weapons carried in the arms below them. The Deathmark vanished in a blink of an eye and the weapons grew brighter. Lightning crackled. And within the split instant, Gretz watched a wall of energy charge at him.

End of Erotic Rage-Inducing G Genocide

**Episode Null - Epilogue**

Explosions rocked the ancient ship. In a secluded corner near the labs, Phet lifted his tail. A little green bulb flashed at the tip.

***Interstellar Hum***

"Yes, I am alright. Thanks for asking for once."

***Interstellar Hum***

"Unfortunately, the subject's body is ashes. I'm sorry."

***Interstellar Hum***

"Yes."

***Interstellar Hum***

"Yes."

***Interstellar Hum***

"His demise came as a result of a Cryptek having access to portions of the ship she was not to have access too."

***Interstellar Hum***

"He's on the surface, with Azultep."

***Interstellar Hum***

"Of course Szazadrekh is a moron. If you hadn't kept him in the dark about this-"

***Interstellar Hum***

"Results showed that the mutation was successful. Ratio of fungal genes to more animalistic genes was lowered significantly. We have- HAD an intelligent ork. And then mister stinking shooty-hooty came out of the metal-work raving about infestations and blasting everything-"

***Interstellar Hum***

"The head is still intact, but I made sure to put it under sedatives. Don't worry, I hid it."

***Interstellar Hum***

"I'll get him to you, don't worry."

***Interstellar Hum***

"No I will not get you any cake."

***Interstellar Hum***

"No, I will not fetch you a skin coat. The deal was I get you the head, you get me my body, and-"

"Fine, okay, I was to get you the body! But the head is just as fine! I'm sure you can use the genetic code in there-"

***Interstellar Hum***

"Quit being such a picky bastard. I will get this head to you, but I may need some help.

"Whatever! The head is safe, that's all you need to know!"

***Interstellar Hum***

"Mhm. Alright."

***Interstellar Hum***

"Well you should've simply stuck with the original deal rather than me having to go through all this acting and pretending to be-"

***Interstellar Hum***

"Whatever! Goodbye, dear sir!"

Phet pulled back his tail and watched as Necron blasted Necron below. It was a pretty light show, but he had more important things to worry about. "C'tan damn Necron Lords and your politics! Just give me a body so I can liberate my brethren!"


End file.
